A few days ago I heard back from the NYC Midnight people with the results from the second round of the writing contest. For some reason, my story Lieber’s Report came in 4th in my group of 50, good enough to get me through to the final round where the final 80 writers would go head to head, with the top five winning cash prizes. The genre was up to the writers to decide, which in a way made it more difficult. The action we must include was holding hands, and the word was ‘secret.’ I figured about 75 of the 80 would be turning in a romance story, but they specifically said original ways of using the action would be encouraged. After I got my assignment, my son suggested a fixed horse race. I had nothing better, so I went with his idea. Like the first two rounds, I’m not in love with my story, and will be surprised if it isn’t a middle of the pack entry. Still, coming in 40th, let’s say, out of 4000 isn’t necessarily a failure. Anyway, here is round 3, The Fix.
Swabby sat silently in the racetrack bleachers and watched the parade to post. An atonal loudspeaker introduced the horses in a nasally drone.
He had successfully paid off only five of the nine jockeys to lose, leaving uncertainty about the fixed bet. He popped an antacid, inhaled deeply and dug in his jacket for a cigarette. In his view outside the grandstand stood the other two members of his gang, a young couple, watching the horses. They had been in the locker rooms to bribe the remaining jockeys, then relay to Swabby by way of a secret cue which horse was designated to win the race.
His wife and baby girl were gone, and his share of the bet money represented selling his car and emptying his savings.
“Number Six, West End Wally,” continued the loudspeaker, “Owned by Hamilton Stables, ridden by Oscar Mendez.” At this point the young couple reached toward each other and held hands, the signal he had waited for.
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He threw down his smoke and headed for the betting wicket. He glanced at the tote board: number six, 28 to 1. “$10,000, six to win,” he told the cashier and slid her the money.
He paced outside, too nervous to sit. The tote board recalculated and flashed 15 to 1.
There was a sudden commotion near the rail to his left. Two cops and a Racing Commission official were handcuffing his friends. Someone had squealed. He wasn’t arrested, but if he ever cashed the ticket he would be. It was over.
So that’s it. It’s not knocking my socks off, but I hope it surprises me like Lieber did. The name of my character is a little unusual. Swabby is a nautical nickname used mostly for deck-swabbing deck hands. In the horse racing sense, Swabby was a small time crook who got caught fixing some races at Fort Erie racetrack in Ontario in the early 1950s. He succeeded for a while, netting him and a couple friends around $200,000 before he got busted. In that sense, my story might be called Historical Fiction as it is the fictionalized account, more or less, of a real guy named Swabby. The other stuff is purely made up, and I checked to make sure. I don’t need any lawsuits.