Beginner's Luck

Life as a burger flipper at the Pint and Pretzel, a popular chain of bars, was not the dream job that twenty-year-old Lorenzo’s parents had in mind. If anything, they wanted their naïve son to pursue a career as a lawyer or an engineer. Lorenzo would always tell his parents that he didn’t know what he wanted to do, but he knew that all they cared about was bragging to the family about their lawyer son. Instead Lorenzo graduated college with a Culinary Arts degree. He also wanted to become a pro-wrestler and had already begun training, much to the utter dismay of his conservative parents.

Lorenzo could always count on hot-tempered Paran to make his life miserable. Recently promoted to manager, Paran ran off long time cook Anwar before realizing that he was short a body behind the grill and in his haste, moved Lorenzo to cook with a pitiful raise in pay. Paran could be heard making fun of Lorenzo from the kitchen, belittling him about his training and how pro-wrestlers weren’t as tough as they portrayed themselves, often puffing his chest out and daring Lorenzo to take a swing. Lorenzo would always walk away, knowing that if he actually hit his boss, his pro-wrestling dreams would go out the window.

Tuesday evening was always busy for Lorenzo. Since he was the only cook he felt like he did the job of three people without another set of hands. He repeated pleaded with his manager to hire someone part time, but Paran would ignore his requests, accusing him of being lazy in front of staff and customers. On this particular Tuesday night an order was put through for a regular; a well-dressed older man with flowing gray hair.

“Don’t forget Mister Diego’s cheeseburger and fries!” Paran shouted, popping his head in the kitchen.

“Got it,” Lorenzo responded, slightly startled. “No tomatoes, no onions, extra cheese and lettuce?”

“Are you stupid?” Paran barked. “Of course! What else would Mister Diego order??” He stormed off in a huff.

“Goddamn it,” Lorenzo muttered, blowing a lock of black hair out of his face. “I can’t wait to leave this hell hole for good!”

The rush died down enough for Lorenzo to clean his grill and soak a few of his mixing bowls. One of the busboys, a skinny Moroccan boy who just turned nineteen dumped another stack of dirty plates and utensils near the sink, counter space that Lorenzo set aside since Paran refused to buy a new counter to sort out the dirties. With gloved hands and zero motivation Lorenzo began separating plates and drinking glasses from utensils, grumbling about not taking his break.

He neared the bottom of the pile when Lorenzo plucked what appeared to be an old leather-bound Moleskine notebook; the edges looked ratted with age, the corners creased from constant bending. Looking around, he flipped through the pages to find a series of numbers written, followed by various descriptions. Lorenzo’s senses were heightened, stuffing the Moleskine in his pocket for future reading.

The kitchen at the Pint and Pretzel closed at the usual time, eleven in the evening. Lorenzo couldn’t contain his curiosity but he didn’t think it was wise to read the Moleskine on the bus. It was just after twelve thirty when Lorenzo crept up to his room. He waited until his mother check in on him. Using a small flashlight, Lorenzo’s mouth went dry when he opened the Moleskine and saw the numbers and descriptions more clearly.

They were bets, complete with odds, point spreads and payouts. Even more astonishing were sporting events, past and present and the outcomes. Past events were marked with an X. The most intriguing part were the events that were yet to happen, the outcomes detailed in neat penmenship.

Mister Diego was a bookie. The year written on the inside cover: 1967, as though the notebook had come from somewhere in the past.

Lorenzo couldn’t fathom the treasure he held in his hands, nor could he comprehend how a Moleskine from the sixties had every sporting event right up to the present day. On his off days, Lorenzo would head to his Uncle Richie’s bodega, a small convenience store located east of his parent’s house, where Uncle Richie ran a betting den in a shed attached to the bodega. He had been hanging there since he was ten years old, earning his first pay running errands.

It was Wednesday morning when Lorenzo lifted his mattress to retrieve a stack of bills in different dominations. Soccer playoffs were starting tonight between Toronto FC and DC United, providing Lorenzo a chance to place a decent bet. He arrived at his uncle’s bodega at around six thirty in the evening and knocked. The door was watched by his uncle’s associate, a tall man with broad shoulders, blazing blue eyes and long red hair. He recognized Lorenzo, buzzing him in.

Uncle Richie was his usual loud self, and in a good mood. Soccer season was a money maker for him and he couldn’t wait for the bets to roll in. Not the biggest person in the room, standing at five feet, six inches, but his reputation in the neighbourhood was legendary. He spied his nephew greeting some of the other bookies.

“What’s going, nephew?” Richie bellowed. “I don’t have anything for you right now, unless you’re here to finally place a bet?”

Lorenzo nodded. “What kind of odds are you giving me between Toronto and DC United?” He couldn’t help notice how his uncle and dad were almost identical, their dark brown skin making them look like twins.

Richie chuckled. “C’mon boy, I hope you’ve emptied your mattress stash. How much you betting?”

“One thousand dollars on Toronto FC.”

“One thousand on Toronto?” Richie laughed. “DC is the favorite at three-to-one. But I’ll give five-to-one odds on Toronto winning.” He snatched the money from Lorenzo. “This is the easiest one thousand dollars I’ve ever made!” Having memorised the notebook before seeing his uncle, Lorenzo tried to hide his excitement with great difficulty when he got home, after watching Toronto FC beat DC United, five to one was the final score.

Before his shift at the Pint and Pretzel on Thursday night, Lorenzo stopped by his uncle’s bodega to pick up his winnings. Richie was skeptical at first and inquired about the bet before giving his nephew the six thousand dollars. “I thought I’d bet on the underdog this time,” was Lorenzo’s response. All throughout his shift Lorenzo was couldn’t help but smile, even when hot-tempered Paran was shouting at him. He felt the bulge of the aged Moleskine in his pocket; Lorenzo was not about to part with it, knowing what he had in his possession.

“Hey,” Paran shouted. “Mister Diego has been asking if we’d seen his notebook, says he left it here Tuesday night. Did you see it, or were you stupid enough to throw it out?”

Lorenzo nearly jumped. “I don’t remember seeing any notebook.”

Three days later Lorenzo stopped by his uncle’s bodega. It was the afternoon and Richie had stepped out, so Lorenzo had no choice than to deal with one of Richie’s bookie, a chubby man with tanned skin, balding hair, too much cologne and a pair of thick framed glasses named Hector. “Lorenzo, your uncle had some business to take care of,” he mumbled. “Sundays is his only day to do so. You placing a bet?”

Lorenzo didn’t like Hector; he found the old bookie too serious for his liking. “Yea, give me five-to-one on Toronto FC.” He gave Hector thirty-five hundred dollars.

Hector looked at Lorenzo over his glasses. “You sure you want Toronto? Last time was a fluke.”

Whatever fatty. “I’m sure.”

“Ok, your money, kid.” Sitting in a nearby coffee shop, Lorenzo read the outcome of the Toronto/New York City FC game, waiting in anticipation to collect his winnings.

The next day Lorenzo could hardly contain his excitement. Richie was at his desk when he walked in. The lack of activity in the early Monday afternoon did not go unnoticed by Lorenzo. “Nephew,” Richie called out. “Over here.”

Lorenzo saw that his uncle was not happy. His usual charming demeanor had been replaced with something that the boy could not quite figure out.

“That’s quite the streak you have going,” Richie said, his hand hovering over the two ten thousand dollar stacks. “If you weren’t my nephew I’d say that you were up to something, like some sort of brujeria.”

If Lorenzo was scared, he did not show it. “I got a little cocky, tio, that’s all. Must be beginner’s luck.”

Richie’s burned holes into his nephew. “Here, you won it, fair and square.” Lorenzo reached out to retrieve his winnings. “That’s over twenty thousand dollars, nephew. Don’t spend it all in one place and most importantly, don’t let your parents catch you with this or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Richie waved his nephew away. “Sorry nephew, I was hoping to take you out today for lunch but I need to sort out some things. We’ll talk later.”

Lorenzo couldn’t leave his uncle’s bodega fast enough. Holy shit! Lorenzo screamed in his mind, twenty grand! He started to feel bad about using the Moleskine to win his bets, but an opportunity like this never came around for him; he would have to figure out a way to hide the money without raising suspicion.

The rest of the week had been a blur between work and training at the wrestling school; Lorenzo couldn’t be any happier for Friday. Coach Sam Nielson, a former pro wrestler and owner of the school scheduled Lorenzo, known as Antonio Drive for an upcoming match Sunday afternoon against another student who performed under the ring name Hobo Hansen.

Late October was normally cold but Lorenzo was not fazed; he was twenty thousand dollars richer and he was going to perform in his second wrestling match. In his train of though he did not notice a well-dressed man with gray hair walking next to him. Startled, Lorenzo looked over but didn’t stop; the old man just smiled.

“Can I help you?”

“I believe you can.” He extended his hand. “I’m Mister Diego, I’m not from around here, but, I believe you have something that belongs to me.”