A Bookie's Odds Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Ursula Renée and SWEET JAZZ

  A Bookie’s Odds

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  A word about the author…

  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.

  Chapter 1

  September 1957

  He was short. He was scrawny. And his body odor would offend a dog. Yet with all he did not have going for him, he had the nerve to call someone ugly. As Marco Santiano would say, che coglioni…the kid was an idiot.

  The punk sneered as if he were staring at a slug on the bottom of his grimy sneaker. His friend stood behind him, neighing and snorting at behavior unacceptable from someone old enough to ride the train alone. In fact, out of the four people standing in front of the diner, the young men were the only ones laughing.

  Georgia Mae Collins was not amused by the off-colored comment directed at her friend. And she knew she would find no humor in the consequences of his words.

  “You need to leave her alone.”

  She hoped he would heed her warning and leave while he was capable of doing so on his own. No one messed with Celeste Santiano and walked away. Crawled away, maybe. Dragged away, possibly. Carried away, in a lot of cases. But never walked away.

  Squaring his shoulders, the punk slowly turned and faced her. Pockmarks decorated his sallow cheeks and nose. Pus-filled pimples covered his chin. His dried, cracked lips curled back, revealing brownish-yellow teeth. Greasy bangs dangled in front of sunken, bloodshot eyes.

  He took a drag off his cigarette, then blew the smoke in her face. Her eyes watered from his rancid breath.

  “Ain’t no one talkin’ to yah, nig—”

  “I wouldn’t complete that sentence if I were you,” Celeste warned.

  “Why? Yah friends with the coon?” He pointed to the birthmark that stretched from his first victim’s left brow to her cheekbone. “Too ugly for real friends?”

  Celeste crossed her arms over her chest. Her blue eyes narrowed behind medium brown strands that danced in front of her face. Before she could repeat her warning, a voice announced, “It’s time for you girls to go home.”

  Georgia cringed. She glanced past their tormentors at the two men who joined the group. What she had been hoping to avoid was about to take place. All hell was going to break loose.

  “He called Georgia—”

  “I heard what he said.” Nicholas Santiano interrupted before Celeste could repeat the vile word. He held up a set of keys in his left hand. “Take my ride, Georgia.”

  Her gaze dropped from his icy blue eyes to the tick in his square jaw, and then to the lead pipe in his right hand. Her aversion to blood had ruled out a career in medicine. It also inspired her to try to prevent bloodshed, even when young men demonstrated a desire to never eat solid
foods again.

  “Nick—”

  “Now.” His tone said he would not listen to reason. The chocolate ice cream she had been enjoying moments earlier lost its appeal, and she dropped her cone in the trash can in front of the diner before stepping around the tormenter.

  Though the punk maintained his scowl, he was not standing as tall as he had been a minute ago. Likewise, his friend was no longer laughing; he looked as if he was about to soil his pants. Not that she blamed him. Most men did not fare well against someone who stood six feet tall, weighed a hundred eighty-five pounds, and worked out three times week.

  Georgia dragged her feet until she was six inches in front of Nicholas. She reached up for the keys. He wrapped his fingers around hers, pulled her hand to his lips and kissed the back.

  “Smile.” His tone softened as he pressed the pipe into her free hand. “Everything’ll be all right.”

  Georgia shook her head. She knew it wouldn’t. Nicholas may have given her the weapon, but he was still capable of inflicting damage with his bare hands.

  Georgia pulled from his grip and followed Celeste to the red convertible parked across the street. She opened the driver’s door, then glanced back as Nicholas draped an arm over the punk’s shoulders. He steered the tormentor toward the vacant lot next to the diner. Gianni Acardis, his longtime friend, lifted the tail of his shirt. The piece tucked in his pants convinced the other boy to follow.

  With a sigh, Georgia shoved the pipe underneath the driver’s seat, climbed behind the wheel, and started the car.

  “It’s a shame some people have to learn the hard way.” Celeste slid into the passenger seat. “He should’ve listened to me.”

  Georgia pulled away from the curb. “What do you mean, listen to you? You didn’t say anything when that punk came over.”

  “But I spoke up before he called you out of your name.” She bit into her sugar cone. “Now he’s gonna be gumming his food.”

  Georgia stopped at a red light and turned toward her friend. “You should’ve told him no one messes with Celeste Santiano. Not unless he wants to deal with Nicholas Santiano.”