"This guy kills me," Daniel said, not looking up from the paper.
"Who's that?"
"Bob Fucking Greene."
"Not again. Drop it."
"I can't. Listen to this guy. What a fucking hack! How this guy is a respected, published author is beyond me."
"I know, Daniel. How many times do we have to do this? You don't like Bob Greene. You don't know anyone who does like Bob Greene, including me. He sucks. I know that, you know that ..."
"People at the Tribune know that," Daniel interrupted to emphasize his point.
"Yes, people at the Tribune know that, too," Gary said, patronizing his friend. "You have a friend who knows one of the editors there and she said that Greene is the joke of the newsroom. I know, I know, I know. Daniel, let it go."
"But listen to this:
"...Think of all that has happened since the last time the Cubs could call themselves 'World Champions': Two world wars and countless other battles that have forever changed the world's political, social and economic landscape; the rise and fall of communism; round-the-world commercial air travel; man's travels to the moon and back; the civil rights movement; the polio vaccine; the emergence of AIDS; Roosevelt, Kennedy, Reagan, Watergate, and Clinton's impeachment; a new millennium; the Great Depression; the Dow Jones reaching 10,000 and beyond ...
"Someone should check this guy's crotch! Does he even have a dick?"
"I know, Daniel. He's terrible."
"Listen, though. Listen to this:
"Should the Cubs actually defeat the hated Yankees, what will we remember about the period until their next championship? A cure for cancer? No homeless? No poverty? A single, worldwide economy? Fully wireless technology? Men on mars?
"It is a wondrous time, indeed. Wondrous not only for Cub fans, but wondrous for us all."
"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? Does he get stuck at work and just turn in his old high school essays? Hack!"
"Let it go, Daniel."
Gary was detached from the Cubdom that surrounded him: pennants, photos, autographs, scorecards, Ronnie "Woo Woo" on the stereo, an inflatable Mark Kotsay. A real-life Ron Santo and Brant Brown were en route. The Cubs were in the World Series and Gary even had a date for the evening. But when Daniel continued his semi-regular Bob Greene diatribe—"I know disfigured, retarded monkeys who could ..."
"Will you fucking stop!" Gary snapped, flinging his sports section at the stereo and killing the sounds of Ronnie "Woo Woo." "Enough!" He dropped his head into his hands.
"What is with you? Am I missing something? Do I need to remind you what's happening here? Look around, my friend. Jesus Christ, if this isn't the reason you exist ..."
"Would you just listen to me for a second? Please. Jesus Christ, can you just stop complaining for a couple of minutes and let me talk!"
"Alright. OK." Daniel backed off.
The blood rushed from Mr. Erection's face. He turned pale as he told the story of ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional!, a Costa Rican gambling establishment created by a couple of small-time bookies from Southern California who became millionaires—as well citizens of Costa Rica and fugitives in the eyes of the U.S. government—through the magic of 1-800-776-6683. It was perfectly legal in Costa Rica; the feds just didn't care for the fact that 93.4% of their customers lived in the United States and gambled on professional and college sporting events played in the United States. An associate at Mathers, Shapiro, Westerberg & Cochran had introduced Gary to ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! It was a perfect relationship: no traceable phone calls to an illegal racket, no wagers scribbled in indecipherable shorthand on flash paper, no rendezvous' at McDonald's to exchange envelopes of cash.
The weekly cycle at ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! was Wednesday through Tuesday (to include "Monday Night Football" in the weekend action during the fall). After a profitable week, Gary would receive a cashier's check, usually on Friday. After a week in the red, he would put together a two-day envelope on Tuesday evening, including a cashier's check in the appropriate amount, noting his account number. He was meticulous with his own bookkeeping, using a legal notepad and black and red ink. His system was searchable chronologically or by sport.
"I was fine, making several thousand a year," Gary confided in Daniel. "Until the Super Bowl two years ago. Remember how that sonofabitch got tackled at the one..."
"Kevin Dyson."
"Yeah, Dyson. Whatever. I had the Titans on the money line at 2½ to 1. No way they were going to lose that game. Tampa damn near beat the Rams and Tampa had no offense. Tennessee was Tampa with an offense. That cost me five grand."
"Ouch. But that's... that's not going to kill you."
"That was just the start."
Gary went on to tell Daniel how he had his worst year in 2000 chasing the money he lost on the Rams by betting them hard all year. "I was fine for the first six games, then they fell apart. And after they backed into the playoffs, I figured they were a lock for the Super Bowl."
As Gary continued his tale for Daniel, Brant and Gyp made their way to Gary's apartment in Lakeview. As they drove, Brant reached to extinguish the Big Audio Dynamite coming from the stereo in Gyp's 1991 Tercel. "This town is nothing but oldies radio," he grumbled. They continued north on Ashland in silence, briefly.
"Hey, don't worry about the money," Brant turned to Gyp, abruptly changing the course of their conversation.
"What?"
"How long can you hold out? When do you need to get the money to Tsang?"
"He wants it by tomorrow," she said. "Why? What are you talking about?"
"Long story."
"Gimme the highlights."
"Ever heard of Gary Varsho?"
Gyp stared blankly.
"His career with the Cubs was about as memorable as mine," Brant continued. "Bounced around a little, like me, and then disappeared. Anyway, he hooked up with this outfit in Costa Rica. They look for former athletes who don't have much star quality..."
"What kind of outfit?"
"Gambling. Varsho and others like him are in the collections department."
"So Gary Varsho is a goon for the Costa Rican mafia. How does that help me?"
"It's not the mafia. This is a legit business, at least in Costa Rica. The guys who run the place are living the good life down there. But our wonderful government, which has half of everything I ever made as a ballplayer by the way, looks at them as felons because of their red, white and blue client roster. As soon as they set foot back in the U.S., the feds are going to nab them. So they set up camp down there and hired some cheap labor to work the phones. All they do is set the lines and play 36 holes a day. To keep their presence in the states, they created a network of guys like Varsho to help out when some of their less-than-premier customers fall behind in their payments."
"Is this going to spin back to me anytime soon?" Gyp asked impatiently.
"Your good friend Mr. Erection is in arrears to ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional!"
"Essay what?"
"¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional!" Brant said in his best suave Spanish accent. "'That's a Pro Move!'"
"Cute."
"It's time for Mr. Erection to pay up. Varsho just took care of some guy in Ravenswood and is on vacation in Key West. I've been doing some networking and he knew I could use the work. Your friend either pays up or we take care of him. Either way, I ... we are in for a percentage."
"Take care of?"
"Scare, hurt, maim. Perform selective digital amputation. Any or all of those."
"And you've done this before?"
"Not yet. But I look at it this way: my balls are shriveling up, I'm in debt to a coke whore—no offense—who's in debt to a drug dealer. I'm negotiating my salary to be a department store Santa, and my signature move as an athlete was dropping a fly ball. I see this as a step up on the career ladder."
"How much is he in for?"
"Twenty-five thousand," Gary said to Daniel.
"Twenty-five thousand?!" Gyp shouted back to Brant. "Fuck the cigarettes. Let's get to the party!"
"What the...? How? ... Twenty-five thousand ... dollars? Are you fucking stupid?" Daniel asked rhetorically.
"Yes. Yes, I am. And it's growing by a point a week. I'm fucked."
"How did you get twenty-five thousand in the hole and how are you going to pay that off?"
Mr. Erection turned red and slumped on the couch. He had done the worst thing a gambler could do: he had panicked. He had continued to throw good money after bad until his credit cards were maxed, all five of them. And when he was unable to square his account each week with ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! he went after the surest bet he had ever known: he bet against his Cubs. On September 1 when the Cubs held a 4½-game lead, he bet against them to win the Central, getting 3 to 2 on Cincinnati and 2 to 1 on Houston. In the division playoffs against Montreal, he bet the Expos at 3 to 2. And the Braves, how could they ever beat the Braves? Even if he had to lay $170 just to win $100, how in the world were the Cubs going to beat the Braves in a seven-game series? Gary put $5,000 on the Braves.
"So after the Braves won the first two games, I figured the Cubs were really done, so I started betting the Braves game by game, twenty-five hundred a throw. By the time this guy," Gary said, pointing to the inflatable Kotsay doll, "homered to win game five, I was down another seventy-five hundred, on my way to losing the five grand I originally bet on the series."
Daniel stared straight ahead, a confused look fell across his face as he tried to take it all in. He knew Gary gambled, but this? This is not gambling. Then he started putting pieces together and some things just didn't jive. "You're in big-time debt to some Costa Ricans and you've been betting against the Cubs ... but you've been bouncin' around town more excited than anyone. Just like always. What ... that ... that just doesn't make sense."
"Make sense?" Gary answered, perking up. "Are you kidding? The Cubs won the pennant! They're in the freakin' World Series, man! It makes perfect sense. I've been waiting all my life for this. I always said I would sell my soul to see the Cubs win the pennant. I think I have."
A half-hour later, Mr. Erection's Ron Santo-attended, Cubby Bear-sponsored World Series party was in full swing. Santo, Gyp, Brant Brown ("He doesn't even remember who I am," Brant whispered to Gyp, pointing to Santo), Daniel, the inflatable Mark Kotsay, Jill and Jennifer the neighbors, and Paul "Kong" Kingman, Mr. Erection's best Cub friend, were gathered in Gary's apartment.
With Steve Lyons working the pregame show on television, Gary rose to address his friends. "First off, I want to thank our special guest Ron Santo for joining us this evening." Gary paused while the other guests politely clapped and Santo, standing near a barrel of Old Style, acknowledged them uncomfortably and glanced at his watch. Gary continued, "This is a day I will always remember. ... All of us will, because we've never seen anything like it. We are about to see the Chicago Cubs play the New York Yankees in the World Series. The Cubs! The World Series!" Only Jill, Jennifer and Kong acknowledged the rallying cry and let out a cheer. "How many millions of Cub fans have come and gone since this last happened? We should be so very thankful that we're here to witness this."
"OK, Gary, enough," Daniel said.
"Yeah, sit down!" Brant yelled.
"Bear with me. I'm just about finished," Gary said, reaching behind the television and grabbing a .38 service revolver. "It was good to be a lawyer with cop connections," he thought.
"Jesus Christ!" Daniel yelled as the others sat in stunned silence. Santo sipped his Old Style.
Gary was calm, his expression blank.
"Gary, what the fuck are you doing? Don't fuck around with that!"
"This is the place I've always wanted to be: watching the Cubs in the World Series. My journey is complete."
Gyp held her hand to her mouth as Brant whispered to her, "This is not good."
Daniel tried to reason. He became the cop psychologist trying to talk down the leaper. He spoke with a false calm. "Gary, you can't end it here. Don't you want to see how it turns out?"
"I'm a Cubs fan," Gary answered matter-of-factly. "I'm just happy to be here."
With that, he inserted the barrel into his mouth. Before the gasps of the others had left their mouths, Gary pulled the trigger and sent his blood and brains splattering behind him. Jill and Jennifer screamed and ran for the door. Kong let out a shrill. Daniel raced for Gary. Gyp grabbed Brant as Mr. Erection fell limp to the floor, the back of his head splashed against the "We Love You, Ron" sign like a piece of modern art.
"Oh noooooooooooo!!!" Santo screamed. "Nooooooooooooo!!!"
Gyp ran for the phone to call 911. Daniel crouched over Gary. Brant sidled over to Santo, who had dropped his Old Style. "If anyone named Miguel asks, tell 'im I dropped this one too," Brant said, pointing to Gary's corpse.
Just after midnight, Santo strolled through the parking lot west of the ballpark and past the do-it-yourself car wash. Headed to Bernie's for a few free rounds, he thought of Kotsay's game-winning homer in the seventh to beat El Duque. Hands in his pockets, he skipped across Clark Street humming to himself, Hey, hey. Holy mack-er-el. No doubt about it, the Cubs are on the way. Santo jumped and clicked his heels.