The Gamble Novellas 1-2-3

By Bill Arnott

With no time on the clock an impossible play changes the game, in more ways than one, destroying a gambler's dreams. Or so he thinks. From the gridiron on a small screen TV to an underworld of intrigue, crime, and complex, fascinating characters, join Sheriff, Boss, Bookie and more in this fast paced suspense/mystery/thriller where every play is a gamble, each move a roll of the dice. From award winning, bestselling author Bill Arnott.

The Gamble Novellas 1-2-3 is the compilation of the first three installments of The Gamble series in one page-turning book.

Goodreads: “Fast-paced, original, and compelling. Arnott is a masterful purveyor of mood and dialogue.” | “Gritty writing, entertaining, intriguing.” | “Enjoyable suspense; a completely different experience!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Arnott
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781926459080

Bill Arnott

Bill Arnott is the bestselling author of the suspense/thriller series The Gamble Novellas, Allan's Wishes: Illustrated Edition, Bill Arnott's Beat: Road Stories & Writers' Tips, WIBA and ABF Book Awards Finalist Gone Viking: A Travel Saga, and the travelogue sequel Gone Viking II: Beyond Boundaries. For his Gone Viking expeditions, Bill's been granted a Fellowship at London's Royal Geographical Society. When not trekking the globe with a small pack, weatherproof journal and laughably outdated camera phone, Bill can be found on Canada’s west coast, making friends and misbehaving. @billarnott_aps

Book preview

The Gamble Novellas

1-2-3

Bill Arnott

Copyright Bill Arnott 2021

All rights reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

The Gamble Novellas 1-2-3

ISBN: 978-1-926459-08-0

Published by Wonderful Magical Publications

Table of Contents

The Gamble

High Stakes

Another Roll of the Dice

1. The Gamble

A slate day, grey as gunmetal. Sheriff came-to, foggy behind closed eyes. Pulled the thin pillow around his head, hoping to ease the ache, a residual squeeze of sludgy bourbon and draft. The metal bar in the pullout—the only furniture—stabbed his spine through mattress lumps. His legs, hanging past the end of the bed, still slept. The only part of him, he thought grimly, that got any rest. He rolled upright and ran a hand across his face, a calloused palm scraping a rough jaw.

This was not how he imagined it would be.

It played again in his head, like it always did. Simply wouldn’t stop. Last play of the game. The ugly little bastard from some country he’d never even heard of, with a bad moustache and bionic leg, kicking a sixty-four-yard field goal, in the wind, with no time on the clock. The ball sneaking over the crossbar, the ecstasy of eighty-thousand fans, as Sheriff’s life ended.

He’d watched the game from work, on the small TV he kept there, the only set he watched, other than the one at Ricky’s Tavern. The sickening sensation as the world dropped from beneath him. Twenty-five grand. Twenty-five grand! He was fucked. Utterly, thoroughly fucked. And life took a new turn, down a very bleak road. Or so he thought.

He staggered into the bathroom. The aging guy looking back from the mirror barely resembled a man. All Sheriff could see was a sucker, a lollipop perched on a fleshy stick. Not a fresh one either; a licked one, dropped in the dirt too many times. He splashed water on his face, rubbing away the visual. He could shave at work. He kept the Philishave in his desk at the stationhouse.

He clicked on the radio. Boston played, … turned on some music to start my day … He grinned. Liked it when the radio said something he could relate to. He’d had that LP, remembered the dust jacket with a picture of the band. The drummer, Sib, was a scrawny guy with a huge 1970s white guy afro. And Sheriff drummed the edge of the sink, keeping time with Sib into the break, then winced as the fill vibrated up the back of his neck, echoing in his skull, … see my Marianne walkin’ away …

Which brought Ex to mind. That’s what he called her, now. Strong. Independent. A woman with balls, he liked to say. And that Irish accent. Nearly everything she said came out like a purr, seductive and threatening all at once.

He missed her. Couldn’t deny it. But, oh, when she was pissed—truly angry—you knew it. He supposed it was better than someone who made you figure it out. Ex would tell you, straight out. Direct. No nuance. And somehow dangerous. But maybe that was just the accent.

He didn’t miss the fighting, just all the other stuff. Maybe if that ugly bastard with the superhuman leg had missed, if the wind gusted differently, the bet could’ve gone his way and they’d still be together.

She had nice taste in things; not lavish, but wanting for the good stuff. Stuff that felt beyond his reach. The gambling made it all seem possible. One break, more than breathing room, a proper score. Then they could focus on the two of them, the relationship. Enjoying life and being happy. He imagined a thought bubble over his head, bursting. Poof. Sheriff sighed. She was Bookie’s problem now. Bookie’s sexy problem.

And that’s where things got messy. Like a knot of snakes, an ugly hissing tangle of Medusa hair. Try combing that out. No conditioner in the world could tame those split ends. He realized he’d drifted again, his body longing for sleep as he stared at the mirror. He’d been on autopilot, grabbing the comb from the vanity. He was due for a cut—a little higher, a little tighter—a cop cut. He’d let himself get scruffy, no longer looking the part of town sheriff. He held the comb, poised over his flattened hair. Fuck it. Tossed the comb in the sink. The hat would cover it. After all, the hair wasn’t the problem. Couldn’t simply be cleaned, styled, cut. No, the real issue was layered and matted and just kept growing.

Bookie had taken Sheriff’s bet. All his bets. But the last one—the bad one—that was the tipping point. Bookie owned Sheriff now, and they both knew it. Of course Sheriff could try turning it around, pressure Bookie, maybe even arrest him or force him out of town. Do his job as a cop, in other words. But Bookie wasn’t independent. None of them were. Not really.

Bookie, you see, worked for Boss. Boss wasn’t around much. Not around here, anyway. Boss dealt in bigger things. City things. Bad things. But they were definitely in Boss’s domain, Boss’s reach legendary, and lethal. And while no one ever had details, the nasty truth was always there, hinting, rippling the surface from below.

Sheriff remembered his one murder-case, the only one in town since he’d taken over and assumed the moniker. It was so gangland other cops—city cops—called it Sheriff’s Scorsese case. He did his best to repress it, but it never fully went away. Just lingered, haunting, like Boss’s reputation. It was almost certainly Boss’s work—a grisly nightmare of a murder—an announcement killing, means and end in one. Boss collected. Always. Everyone paid. Anyone long in receivables—30, 60, 90—was not long for this world. Boss’s world. Uncollectibles turned into lawmakers’ nightmares. It never mattered who owed: lowlifes, big shots and yes, even cops. There seemed to be an endless supply of psychopaths looking to make a name, fast track a career in the organization, doing household chores for Boss, collecting receivables and taking out the trash. The more horrific, the more memorable, the better.

The only clue, the only hard evidence Sheriff had from that murder was jammed in the victim’s mouth, or what was left of it. A small foreign coin, worn so thin from age and use the stamped lettering was barely visible. Chinese? Japanese? It didn’t tell Sheriff anything other than the fact he was being mocked, the whole institution of law and order for that matter. It was a calling card, an insult, and a reminder of who was really in charge. Boss.

Part of Sheriff wanted to go after Boss. The Dudley Do Right who got the badge years ago. The courageous part. The young part. The part no longer in the mirror.

Sheriff’s blues were in a ball on the floor. He gave them a shake and pulled them on, aware they were slowly but determinedly shrinking in the middle. He gave the wide brimmed hat a bash, thought better of it, and carefully reshaped it before leaving. His cruiser was parked in front of his place—his small empty place. Did he drive home from Ricky’s? That wasn’t good. He slid in beside the shotgun and drove to Peggy’s Diner, like most mornings. Parked and went in. A bell over the door jangled and a couple of heads turned as he entered. He nodded, taking off his hat and sitting at the counter.

Morning, love.

Morning, Peg.

Coffee?

Please.

She poured from a glass carafe—scalding hot, strong black drip coffee that always tasted fresh. He’d never actually seen Peggy make a new pot. It was always magically half-full. Maybe years of drinking scalding coffee had destroyed his taste buds.

You want something to eat, love?

Just a donut, thanks.

You don’t mind bein’ a cliché?

Sheriff smiled. He liked it here. It was the closest thing to home now. This and Ricky’s. But Peggy’s felt better. Honest. Promising, even.

~~~

Bookie waited for the two espresso cups to fill, the gentle hiss of Italian beans turning to frothy crema. He snugged up his linen robe, having cooled down from a morning workout. The great room offered a sweeping view of the river, a geographical and sociopolitical divide as definitive as metaphorical train tracks. This is what Bookie thought, and he was mostly right.

He filled two chilled glasses with grapefruit juice, added them to the tray, and savoured his view as the coffee finished its cycle. Over there was Sheriff’s county. The country mice. Here, close to the city, he was at home, and in charge a lot of the time. He liked the view. It was why he chose the place—the river a clean separation, carving land, segregating people—them and us, staff and management. He grinned, pleased with his analogy. Made him feel educated, that those three-and-a-half years of college were worthwhile, before his path veered, a sharp dogleg with a deadly undertow, just like the river.

He carried the tray into the bedroom where Ex was propped up in bed, channel surfing on the wall-mounted flat screen.

What’s on?

Nothing, as usual, she said in her lilting accent.

Bookie set the tray on the bed.

Grapefruit? She made a face and took an espresso.

Bookie’s face was unreadable. He set both juices on his side table.

What’re you up to today? he asked.

Not much. Maybe go to the city. Pick up some things.

He nodded, wondering what that would cost.

You?

I’m working, he said, thinking that was clever, as he could’ve meant this conversation.

Mm, she said distractedly, getting up and walking around the big bed toward the walkthrough and en-suite.

Bookie’s eyes followed her. She’s sexy, that’s for sure, he thought. But more work than he’d have liked. He felt like the winner when she left Sheriff to come live with him—with the victor the spoils. But he wondered what Sheriff thought. Did he know something about her Bookie didn’t? Was that son-of-a-bitch laughing behind Bookie’s back? Could you put a price on freedom? Was it twenty-five large at twenty points a month? Sometimes Bookie wondered who owned who now. He really did.

~~~

Ex got the shower going, letting the double-head rain shower heat up. From the bedroom she could hear Bookie channel surfing, then settling in on financial news. He’d be busy with that for a while. It’d give her a chance to shower, change and head out, get some work done. It wasn’t that she didn’t like it here. It was decent enough. Filled with high-end stuff. But cold. Never any music. The place lacked heart. The gadgets and electronics reminded her of a trophy room—taxidermied animal heads with glass eyes and haunting stares. Sometimes she wondered how Bookie envisioned her here. The place exuded longing, someone trying to fake their way somewhere better, desperate to climb—a cheater playing snakes and ladders.

A part of her missed the shitty coffee from Peggy’s Diner. Maybe it was the fact Sheriff liked it so much she started to believe it wasn’t so bad after all. She smiled. They got along well, she and Sheriff. Liked music. Talked easily. It was nice. Too bad he kept fucking