A Bookie's Odds
Praise for Ursula Renée and SWEET JAZZ
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
“You’re beginning to sound like your father.”
“No, Daddy calls you a thug. I called you a skirt chaser.”
Nicholas released her hand and slapped his own over his heart. “You hurt me.”
Georgia sucked her teeth. “Be serious.”
“I am.” He took her hand back into his, ignoring the curious glances from the patrons who had joined them on the dance floor. “How could you say such harsh things?”
“Because it’s true. You’ll chase after anything in a skirt.”
“I do not.”
“Oh, forgive me. I forgot your two prerequisites.”
“Which are?”
“Big boobs.”
“That’s not true.” He glanced at the mounds peeping from the top of her dress. “I enjoy all breasts.”
The room suddenly grew warm. “Stop that.” She lowered her eyes, trying to maintain her composure. “People will get the wrong idea.”
“What idea? That you’re a beautiful woman men can’t help but look at?”
“No, that you’re interested in me. We both know that’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve already told you.” She huffed. At times, talking to Nicholas was like talking to a mule. “You’re a womanizer.” She raised her eyes. His, dancing with amusement, stared down at her. “So do me a favor and stop brushing my cheek, kissing my hand, and calling me
amore
, ’cause I’m not your love.”
Praise for Ursula Renée and
SWEET JAZZ
“The author tells the story in such detail and depth a reader can’t help but picture the characters in motion, the unlikeable characters as well as the likable. The story is one of hope, determination and passion for the love of song, music and finding love when it’s least expected. I am sure Randy could have given up, packed up his sax and moved on, but he found something worth staying for and very well something worth standing up for…that speaks volumes.
SWEET JAZZ
is just as the title states. It is a sweet romantic story that like jazz has propulsive rhythms played out in harmonic freedom. If you enjoy the laid back sounds of smooth jazz, this is a melodic story that you would want to add to your reading list.”
~Ginger, Long and Short Reviews (4 Stars)
A Bookie’s Odds
by
Ursula Renée
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
A Bookie’s Odds
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Ursula Renée
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Rae Monet, Inc. Design
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Vintage Rose Edition, 2015
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0318-5
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0319-2
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
A Bookie's Odds
is dedicated to my co-workers,
who patiently listened to me work through plots,
and my son,
who always cheered me on.
Prologue
October 1942
“I don’t like you.”
The announcement came as no surprise to Marco Santiano. He could count on one hand the number of people who actually liked him. Most smiled in his face but would stab him in the back if he were stupid enough to turn it on them. Even the people gathered in his brownstone today, eating his food and drinking his wine, were only there to suck up to him and stay in his good graces.
At least this adversary had the balls to be honest. Except for his mother, no one had ever told him to his face what they thought of him. That alone earned James Collins his respect.
Marco followed his guest into the den and closed the door. The oak barrier did little to muffle the murmurs of the gossips in the family room.
Ten minutes earlier, partygoers had been scattered throughout the house, celebrating his daughter’s sixth birthday. Children raced from room to room with no concern for the fragile sculptures they flew past. Their parents were too busy sticking their noses in other people’s business to reprimand their hellions.
Despite the games, the clown, and enough sweets to give the children stomachaches for a week, the birthday girl had not been impressed by the activities. She had sat at the front window, refusing to move, until she saw her best friend climb the stoop.
Never before had he seen two people as excited to see each other. The second the late arrival stepped into the house, his daughter squealed loudly enough to nearly shatter glass. The girls hugged and carried on as if it had been weeks instead of hours since they last saw one another.
The other guests had rushed to the foyer to investigate the commotion. Laughter switched to profanity and smiles turned to frowns. The girls, however, were oblivious to the crowd. Neither cared about the differences others used to determine who they could or could not associate with. Race, religion, and socio-economic status meant nothing to them. They were simply happy to be together.
Impressed by the girls’ ability to focus on what really mattered, Marco decided to follow their example. After ensuring the friends were under the watchful eye of his mother, he invited James to join him in the room he retreated to each night to unwind.
“Have a seat.” Marco waved a hand toward the two red easy chairs in front of the fireplace. “Would you care for a drink?” he offered as he reached for a bottle of bourbon in the last bookcase along the wall.
“I wanna get everythin’ out in the open,” James replied. He stood in the middle of the room with his arms crossed over his massive chest. The scowl on his face would intimidate a hoodlum into confessing all his sins.
The man was blunt and to the point, traits Macro respected. He loathed people who wasted his time beating around the bush.
“You’re not thrilled with your daughter’s choice of friends.” He phrased the comment as a statement since the frown on the man’s face left no question of his displeasure. “How your daughter’s able to look beyond—”
“This has nothin’ to do with race.”
Marco set the bottle on the shelf, then slowly turned to the other man. His heart broke when children teased his daughter about the strawberry-colored birthmark surrounding her left eye. It infuriated him when adults shunned her for something she had no control over.
James shook his head. “Nor does this have to do with the angel’s kiss on your daughter’s face.”
Marco raised an eyebrow. No one had ever used such a precious term for the birthmark. He’d heard people refer to it as a mark of the devil or an unfortunate deformity. His mother called it a
voglie
and accused him of withholding something from his spouse when she was carrying their child. His wife, to the day she died, had simply refused to acknowledge it.
Despite the kind words, James’s features did not soften. Lines creased his forehead, and the nostrils on his broad nose flared. The frown he had been wearing since he stepped into the brownstone deepened. Marco could only assume that the cherub who called the other man daddy got her sweet disposition from her mother.
“If it’s not her race or the mark, then what is it?” he asked.
“I don’t want my daughter around a gangster.”
Marco did not like the word “gangster.” The term conjured up images of the men who robbed banks, slapped their women around, and dealt drugs. Unlike Leo Darcy in
Midnight Mary
or Tom Powers in
The
Public Enemy
, he helped those the banks snubbed…for a nice profit.
“I prefer to think of myself as a financier.”
“I prefer calling a spade a spade…or in your case, a crook a crook.”
Marco smiled. The man had guts.
He could not hold James’s opinion against him. Not everyone was impressed by his career. When his wife had discovered how he made his money, she threatened to leave. She’d agreed to stay only after he promised never to conduct business in the house.
“If you don’t like me, then why are you here?”
“I couldn’t hold your career choice against your daughter.”
With each passing moment, Marco’s respect for the other man increased. Since the girl’s father liked honesty, he decided to be truthful, too.
“I hadn’t planned on sending an invitation,” he confessed. He didn’t think the girl would feel comfortable being the only colored child at the party.
“I figured as much. Georgia said the other girls received their invitations two weeks ago. What changed your mind?”
“Celeste was miserable without her friend.”
“None of the other children would play with her?”
“I don’t think she noticed. She was too busy staring out the window for your girl.”
He thought his daughter had understood her friend was not coming when he suggested they could get together separately. But, as soon as the party started, she insisted on waiting by the door for the other girl. She had not cared about the children who came from money or had the “right” pedigree. She only wanted to play with the girl who had done the one thing no one else had…reached out to her as a friend.
Celeste’s long face and sad eyes tore at his heart, and he sent a car for Georgia. He did not like his princess unhappy and suspected the other man felt the same about his daughter.
“Why’d you move north?” Marco asked, despite knowing the answer.
The day after Celeste came home from school rambling about her new best friend, Marco had checked out the other man. He knew everything there was to know about the sanitation worker who tended bar at night to not only support his daughter but save for her college tuition.
James’s shoulders slumped. His pain was reflected in his eyes.
“Wife died in childbirth four years ago, ’cause there was no hospital nearby for colored folks. Junior died not long after. I didn’t want Georgia growin’ up in a town that barely had services for white folks and a helleva lot less for coloreds.”
“That’s why she’s not enrolled in her zoned school?” The other man did not react to the revelation that his daughter was not attending the school assigned to her neighborhood. Encouraged by his lack of response, Marco asked, “It’s safe to assume you want the best for your daughter?”
“What are you sayin’?”
“What you hate most about me may be a blessing for your girl.”
James raised an eyebrow. Though he continued to frown, Marco knew he had the man’s interest.
“Your girl reached out to mine. Because of her kindness, I’m willing to offer her protection. No matter where she goes in this city, she’ll be safe.”
Marco nodded his head at the window. James stepped forward and peered down at the garden.
Celeste and Georgia sat on the swings, challenging each other to touch the sky. Three other girls stood nearby. Their pouts said they wanted to chase the friends from the playground equipment. Yet none of them were brave enough to cross the older woman who sat on a bench and watched. Her scowl dared anyone to bother the two friends.
James’s features softened. He nodded. As Marco had suspected, the man was willing to make a deal with the enemy to ensure his daughter’s happiness.
Marco turned back to the bookcase. When he went into business, he’d learned people had a tendency to say what they thought he wanted to hear. There was rarely any truth behind the words that spilled from people’s lips.
James’s honesty told him he would not have to worry about the man going back on his word. There would be no need for contracts, signatures, witnesses, or lawyers. In their case, a gentleman’s agreement would suffice.
Marco held out a glass to his adversary. With a nod of appreciation, James accepted the drink.
Silently, the men lifted their glasses to each other. Then they knocked back the liquor and sealed the deal for their daughters’ future.
