Running on Empty (14 page)

As usual, Ethan was the only person getting off the bus at the entrance to Cathedral Estates. Despite the whole environmental awareness movement and the push to use public transit, he figured no one else living on Seminary Lane, Cloister Drive, Monastery Road, or any of the other streets in his subdivision ever took the bus. As if to underscore that point, a Lexus GS450, an Acura ZDX, and a Mercedes SLK350 drove past him, each carrying only the driver. Watching them cruise by—all of them probably going to the same frigging place, one of those big box stores out at Bayers Lake—Ethan couldn’t help wondering when vehicles started getting names with numbers instead of nouns. Cobra, Corvette, Beretta, Stealth—now
those
were names that grabbed you. Hell, even place names like Sonoma and Santa Fe were better than combinations of letters and numbers that looked like something you’d see on a pharmacy prescription. He shrugged and kept walking.

Not knowing the people on his bus was actually an advantage—it meant he didn’t have to talk to anyone. Like always on a Sunday, he had run flat out at The Chow Down, so he liked being able to close his eyes and let the motion of the bus ease some of the stiffness from his body. Even though this was his sixth Sunday working there, he still found himself wiped afterwards. But the good news was he rarely messed up orders now, he hadn’t dropped a meal in quite a while, and Ike hadn’t bellowed at him in nearly a week, which in itself was cause for
celebration. He had yet to see evidence of the “sweetheart” that Lil claimed the cook could be, but Ethan was just grateful not to have a strip torn off him every time he entered the kitchen.

And there was another improvement: the tips were even better since he’d gotten to know some of the regulars. A lot of them he called by name, and he knew without asking what their orders would be. Boots McLaughlin wasn’t the only one who got the same item again and again, and Ethan found it funny how people could get locked into patterns, like always ordering the All Day Breakfast. Would it kill them to try the Philly Steak With Fries once in a while?

Some of the regulars could be a pain in the ass, and he felt like he was earning an Academy Award whenever they showed up, pretending he actually gave a shit to see them. But there were some he looked forward to, like “the girls,” who’d been in that afternoon. Evelyn, the one with the wig, had asked him again whether he and Allie were still a couple because her granddaughter was still between boyfriends. She’d even shown him a picture that she carried in her purse, and Ethan was surprised by how pretty the girl was—so pretty, in fact, that if he and Allie weren’t together, he might have been tempted to let Evelyn set him up. Of course, the moment that thought flashed through his head he felt lousy, and not just because it was disloyal to Allie. It suddenly made him feel like his old man, whose belief in
Appearances are everything
bordered on the fanatical. Like father like son? Christ. Too bizarre even to think about.

Something else that was bizarre was that conversation he’d had with Link Hornsby in his Echo. He’d been thinking about it a lot and, as he walked down Seminary Lane now, he replayed it in his head. The whole idea seemed crazy, but the way Hornsby had explained it made it seem like the answer to his money problems.

When Ethan had asked him that night how he’d been able to win so much money at the casino, Hornsby had told him about a negative progression system called the Martingale. “One of the oldest bettin’ systems around,” he’d said. “And it’s foolproof, as long as you follow it to the letter.” He’d explained how it was based on the law of averages, that a person can’t lose all the time, just as he can’t win all the time. “A gambler usin’ the Martingale decides how much money he’ll bet and, if he wins, he bets the same amount again. He continues bettin’ the same amount each time ‘til he loses.”

“What’s the negative progression bit?” Ethan had asked.

“If the guy loses a hand,” Hornsby explained, “he doubles his last bet. If he loses that one, he doubles the previous bet, and so on. When he eventually wins, that bet earns him back all he lost so he can go back to bettin’ the original amount.”

Ethan had been skeptical. “But all you ever hear about gambling is how often people lose. Their homes, their jobs, everything. If this Martingale system is such a sure thing, why don’t we hear about gamblers getting rich?”

“First,” Hornsby had explained, “not everybody knows about it. Matter of fact, most people do just the opposite of the Martingale. When they lose, they get nervous and start reducin’ their bets. So when that law of averages finally kicks in and they start winnin’ again, those smaller bets don’t cover their losses. They got way too much ground to make up before they start turnin’ a profit again. But it can’t happen ‘cause that law of averages don’t let it.”

The explanation had made a lot of sense to Ethan as he’d sat listening in Hornsby’s Echo.

“And there’s other reasons why you don’t hear about gamblers makin’ a killin’,” Hornsby had continued.

“Like what?”

“A lot of ‘em gamble online.”

“So?”

“Not many people want their picture in the paper for gettin’ rich doin’ somethin’ illegal.”

“Online gambling is illegal in Nova Scotia?”

Hornsby’s eyes had gleamed in the light from the Echo’s dash. “Online gamblin’s against the law for everybody in Canada. The States, too.”

Ethan was confused. “I’ve seen hundreds of pop-ups online for gambling sites. If they’re illegal, how do they get away with it?”

“They’re set up offshore.”

Ethan had let that thought sit for a moment. Then, “Why’re you telling me all this?”

Hornsby had shrugged. “You got a stake now,” he said, nodding toward the wad of bills in Ethan’s hands. “Try it yourself.”

“I’m underage.”

“So?” Hornsby had let the question hang there.

Ethan was stunned. “How can teenagers gamble online?”

“You never surfed porn?” asked Hornsby.

Ethan reddened. “I’m a guy, right?”

Hornsby nodded. “You clicked a button that said you were an adult before you could get on the site. Same thing with online casinos.” To prove his point, he got out of the Echo, went around to the trunk, and then slid back in with a laptop that looked out-of-the-box new and even more powerful than Ethan’s at home. Hornsby booted it up—during the log-in process, Ethan saw the username,
Samantha
, appear in a window and wondered who the hell she could be—and then started the car and backed it out.

“Where’re we going?” Ethan had asked.

“Look for a signal,” said Hornsby, pointing at the Network Center icon on the laptop’s toolbar.

“You don’t have a mobile Internet stick?”

Hornsby glanced at him like he’d just asked if he bought air. “Why pay for something when you can get it free?”

Ethan shrugged. Made sense. He was so used to his old man paying for everything that he took things like Internet access for granted.

They cruised the streets for a few minutes until they found an unencrypted wireless signal. Hornsby pulled over to the curb, turned off the motor, and took the laptop from Ethan, showing him how easy it was to log into various online casinos, set up an account, and deposit money with a bank card or credit card. Some sites, Ethan was surprised to see, even offered sign-up bonuses, crediting money into your casino account to be used for gambling. He’d thought about the rush he and his buddies got when they played dice at lunchtime, masking the game whenever a teacher or monitor strolled by—kids’ stuff compared to what Hornsby was showing him now.

But Ethan still wasn’t convinced. “How do winners get their money?”

“Adults have them transfer it into accounts set up for their winnings. That can be a problem, though, if it ends up bein’ a lot, so some of ‘em do what kids do.”

“What’s that?”

“They get the casino to mail them a cheque.”

Ethan had shaken his head, amazed. “Sounds simple enough.”

“It
is
simple.”

Parked beside the curb, Ethan found it hard to believe that a person could make a lot of money doing what Hornsby was explaining, especially given the ruined Echo he was sitting in. If Internet gambling was such a cash cow, why wasn’t Link Hornsby driving something like that Saab he’d seen back at the Park ‘n’ Pay? But, then again, wasn’t his old man always saying
Waste not, want not?
Hornsby’s
Why-pay-for-something-when-you-can-get-it-for-free philosophy was the same kind of thinking, wasn’t it? But something was still bothering him. “You said the Martingale was foolproof as long as you follow it to the letter. Why
wouldn’t
people follow it? Where does it break down?”

“Two things: balls and bankrolls.”

Ethan already knew about the balls, how losing gamblers had to fight the natural instinct to reduce their bets, but he didn’t understand the other. “Why should bankrolls be a problem?”

“Law of averages again. You can’t win all the time, so you gotta be able to lose, and you gotta be able to keep doublin’ your last losin’ bet so you’ll win back everything you lost. It’s all long-term, kid. Go big or go home.”

And now here Ethan was going home. He turned into the driveway, surprised to see his father’s Beemer—a new M3 he’d bought the week before—sitting in front of the garage. His old man always kept his cars parked inside, so Ethan guessed he and Jillian must be heading out somewhere shortly. And then he remembered hearing something about a fundraiser for his father’s campaign. Ethan scowled. Jack Palmer had the cash to throw at a brand new BMW, yet this evening he’d be attending a fancy dinner with his hand out for political donations. Ethan’s scowl suddenly morphed into a grin as he imagined an event like that being held at The Chow Down. Hell, he probably could have gotten his father a deal: All You Can Eat Philly Steak With Fries. Of course, it would have meant cramming Ike into a tux for the event, but that sight alone would have been worth the price of admission.

Opening the kitchen door, he saw his father getting water from the refrigerator’s dispenser. And wearing a tux. Ethan snorted, shaking his head.

“What’s so funny?” asked his father.

“You had to be there,” said Ethan, removing his jacket and draping it over a chair.

“Speaking of being there,” his father said, “are you home for the night?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Raye’s babysitting for the Loebs, and I don’t want her coming back to an empty house. There was another robbery last night not far from here.”

“A house this time?”

His father shook his head. “Gas station, but who knows what’s next?”

“Isn’t that what you paid the big bucks for?” asked Ethan, nodding at the electronic keypad by the door.

“Those places all had security systems, too, but it didn’t stop the thieves. Do you remember Hank Cavanagh?”

Ethan vaguely recalled a lawyer at his father’s firm. “Yeah.”

“Hank’s got a friend on the force, and he says the police are checking into whether someone’s leaking security details that help the thieves circumvent the systems.”

Ethan wondered at the weirdness of their exchange, surprised at how long his old man had been talking without launching into a lecture. “I’m home for the night anyway,” Ethan said.

“Good.” His father drained his glass and put the empty into the dishwasher.

Ethan thought about Raye and wondered if she’d told their old man about her eyes yet. It had been a few days since the last time he’d mentioned it to her, and he’d warned her he wasn’t going to wait much longer. “Has Raye said anything to you about—”

“How do I look?”

They both turned to see Jillian standing in the doorway, gorgeous in a low-cut red dress that would stop traffic—and, more to the point, would open wallets. His father gave an appreciative whistle. Ethan just shrugged.

Jack looked at his watch. “We need to get a move on, sweetheart.”

“We have plenty of time,” said Jillian.

But Ethan knew his old man, knew he had to arrive at least a half-hour early for any function. Watching his father reach for his keys, Ethan said, “Look, I wanted to ask you if—”

“Can this wait?” asked Jack.

Ethan blinked. “Huh?”

“We can talk about whatever it is you want when I get back.”

“I don’t
want
anythi—”

“Ethan, a lot of important people will be at this event tonight. It wouldn’t look good for the guest of honour to be late, now would it?”

Ethan felt his face grow warm. “Look, I just wondered if—”

But his father was already holding the door open for Jillian. “I said we’ll discuss it when I get home, okay?” and there was no mistaking his Final Word On The Matter tone. Then, just before he shut the door, “This is Sunday night. You must have schoolwork to do.”

Ethan stood staring at the closed door, surprised at himself for thinking his old man might actually have spent five seconds listening to what he had to say. But in a contest between himself and “important people,” there
was
no contest.

He reached for the fridge door. As usual, it didn’t open easily, its ultra-strong magnetic seal requiring him to brace his feet against the porcelain tiles before he gave it a yank. It reminded him of the physics test he’d studied for and barely passed a month ago:
The maximum possible friction force between two surfaces before sliding begins is the product of the coefficient of static friction and the normal force
. He sure as hell didn’t know what “normal” was, but there always seemed to be maximum friction between him and his old man, some unseen force that kept them grinding against each other at every turn. He wondered idly if Beaker had a coefficient for
that
.

The fridge door opened on his second pull and, surveying the
various fruit and health drinks inside—Jillian’s contribution to the family’s dietary needs—he shut it in disgust. Then he grinned. A moment later, he was in his father’s study opening the beer and wine cooler built into the floor-to-ceiling cabinet that lined the far wall and contained, along with his father’s law library, several bottles of spirits. Although his father never touched alcohol, he always kept it on hand for guests, which Ethan knew had everything to do with appearances. The perfect lawyer couldn’t be anything less than the perfect host.