Chương 34: Rising Horizons IV

Arc III — Rising Horizons Friday, February 12, 1971 The winter sun had barely begun to rise over Manhattan when the first phase of James' newest plan quietly moved into motion. Unlike the previous betting trips... James and Enzo remained in New York. That alone made this operation completely different.

Inside Apartment 4B on East Street, James finished the last bite of his breakfast while Enzo folded the morning edition of the New York Herald. The apartment was unusually quiet. Claire had already stopped by earlier that morning, cleaned the apartment, stocked the pantry with fresh groceries, and left before either of them had even finished breakfast. Enzo poured himself another cup of coffee. James looked at the wall clock.

"He should be landing in California around now." Enzo nodded.

"If everything stayed on schedule." James leaned back.

"I still can't believe we're actually trying this." Enzo smiled.

"You were the one who invented the whole thing." James laughed.

"True."

"But theories and reality are different."

More than two thousand miles away... A jet operated by Atlantic Continental Airways descended through the clear California sky. Among its passengers sat Thomas Reynolds. Thirty-six years old. Senior Regional Sales Representative for Thompson Manufacturing. Nine years with the company. Known internally for remaining calm under pressure. He had spent nearly every month of the past several years traveling across the United States, visiting wholesalers, department stores, and outdoor retailers.

Travel had become second nature. If someone reviewed his expense reports... Nothing would seem unusual. California was already on his schedule. Las Vegas... Was simply an additional stop.

Thomas completed his meetings throughout the afternoon with several prospective retailers. He discussed wholesale pricing. Delivery schedules. Future civilian product expansion. Everything appeared completely ordinary. Exactly as Anthony Russo had intended. Not once did Thomas mention gambling. Not once did he mention Vendetta Investments. And certainly not James.

By early evening... He arrived at the airport once more. His next flight lasted barely over an hour. When the aircraft finally descended over southern Nevada... The bright lights of Las Vegas stretched across the desert like scattered diamonds. Thomas looked through the airplane window.

"I've never been here before..." he quietly murmured.

The terminal bustled with tourists carrying luggage, businessmen finishing conventions and vacationers eager to try their luck. Outside... A long line of taxicabs waited beneath glowing neon signs. One driver waved.

"Taxi, sir?" Thomas nodded.

"Downtown." The driver loaded his suitcase into the trunk.

"Business or vacation?" Thomas smiled politely.

"A little of both."

Las Vegas rolled past outside the taxi window. Bright hotel signs. Casino marquees. Restaurants. Music spilling from open doors. Everything seemed louder... Brighter... And somehow faster than New York. The driver laughed.

"First time?" Thomas admitted it.

"It shows?"

"A little."

"Don't worry."

"Everybody loses their first day." Thomas only smiled.

"Hopefully not everybody," he thought.

Twenty minutes later... The taxi stopped near one of the city's busiest intersections. Across the street stood a building James and Enzo already knew well. Stardawn Sportsbook. Thomas paid the driver. Collected his briefcase. Adjusted his tie. Then, he walked toward the entrance.

Unlike the luxurious casino hotels nearby... The sportsbook felt practical. Serious. Rows of betting windows lined one side of the room. Large chalkboards filled nearly an entire wall. Employees constantly climbed small ladders, updating odds with fresh white chalk. Horse racing. Basketball. College football futures. Boxing. Auto racing. Every imaginable sporting event covered the boards. Dozens of bettors stood studying numbers with remarkable concentration. Some carried newspapers. Other notebooks.

Several argued loudly over statistics. Nobody paid any attention to Thomas. Exactly as planned.

He slowly approached one of the betting windows. A middle-aged clerk looked up.

"Good evening, sir."

"What can I do for you?" Thomas answered calmly.

"I'd like to place a wager." The clerk slid a blank betting slip beneath the glass.

"Please fill it out." Thomas reached inside his coat pocket. Anthony had written James' instructions onto a small folded card. Not because Thomas needed help remembering... But because Anthony believed written instructions prevented expensive mistakes. Thomas carefully copied every line. Daytona 500 Exacta #43 Richard Kingston — First #3 Benjamin Carter — Second Stake: $3, 000 The clerk read it twice. He looked back up.

"You understand that's an Exacta?" Thomas nodded.

"I do."

"The order has to be exact."

"I'm aware." The clerk shrugged.

"Just making sure." Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. He entered the information into the sportsbook ledger. A heavy mechanical stamp struck the ticket. THUMP. Another stamp followed. THUMP. The clerk separated the carbon copies. One remained inside the sportsbook's records. The second... He handed across the counter.

"Keep this somewhere safe."

"If you lose it..."

"We can't help you." Thomas accepted it carefully.

"I understand." He opened his leather wallet. Not wanting to carry the ticket loosely inside his pocket... He slipped it behind a transparent plastic sleeve designed for important documents. Then, he closed the wallet. Only afterward did he count out thirty one-hundred-dollar bills. The clerk counted every bill twice before placing them inside the cash drawer.

"Everything's in order."

"Good luck, sir." Thomas nodded.

"Thank you." He turned quietly and walked back outside. No celebration. No excitement. To everyone inside... He was simply another businessman who had decided to gamble a little while passing through Las Vegas. Exactly as James had envisioned.

Standing beneath the glowing neon lights... Thomas looked once toward the desert sky. The first step... Had been completed. Now... There was nothing left to do... Except wait for Sunday. ☆☆☆☆☆☆ Saturday, February 13, 1971 Snow still covered patches of the baseball field behind Public School 87, but enough of the infield had been cleared for a game. For once... James wasn't thinking about Thompson Manufacturing. He wasn't thinking about Vendetta Investments. Nor about the Daytona 500 taking place the following day.

Today... He had promised someone something far more important.

Michael Henderson was already waiting. The moment he spotted James walking toward the field carrying an old baseball glove, he grinned.

"You actually came!" James laughed.

"I told you I would." Robert Miller jogged over with a baseball tucked beneath his arm.

"I thought you'd invent another excuse." Sarah Collins crossed her arms dramatically.

"He's probably going to leave after one inning." James shook his head.

"Not today."

Within minutes... Nearly a dozen children had divided themselves into two teams. There were no uniforms. No coaches. No scoreboards. Just children enjoying a Saturday afternoon. The bases were nothing more than flattened cardboard boxes someone had found behind the school. The pitcher's mound barely existed beneath the frozen dirt. It didn't matter. To them... It was the World Series.

"James!" Michael shouted.

"You're batting first." James stepped into the makeshift batter's box. Robert stood on the mound.

"You ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." Robert wound up dramatically before throwing. The ball sailed slightly high. James let it pass.

"Ball!" Michael yelled from behind. Robert rolled his eyes.

"Since when are you the umpire?"

"Since five seconds ago." Everyone laughed. The second pitch came much straighter. Crack! The baseball shot toward shallow right field.

"Run!" James sprinted toward first base while the other children scrambled after the ball. He reached safely. Michael raised both hands.

"See?"

"I told you he wasn't rusty." James laughed between breaths.

"I've played before..."

"Just..."

"Not in a while." That wasn't entirely true. He had played plenty of baseball. Just... Not as a ten-year-old.

For nearly three hours... Nothing else existed. No manufacturing reports. No balance sheets. No investment opportunities. No future knowledge. Only baseball. Enzo watched quietly from the driver's seat of his Maranello Cavallo V12 parked across the street. He had arrived nearly forty minutes earlier. Instead of interrupting... He simply watched. James laughed. Argued safely over close plays. Cheered teammates. Even struck out once. Enzo smiled to himself.

"There he is..."

"That's the little boy I hardly get to see anymore."

Eventually... The winter sun began dropping lower in the sky. Parents gradually arrived. Children began heading home. Michael walked beside James toward the school entrance.

"You know..."

"We should play every Saturday." James smiled.

"I'd like that."

"No business meetings?" Michael joked. James burst into laughter.

"I'll do my best." Although... Deep inside... He already knew some Saturdays wouldn't belong to baseball.

Enzo stepped out of the car as James approached.

"So?" James smiled.

"You watched?"

"I did."

"And?"

"You looked happy." James nodded.

"I was." Enzo opened the passenger door.

"I'm glad." As they drove back toward Manhattan... Neither of them spoke very much. Sometimes... Silence itself was enough.

Thousands of miles away... Las Vegas remained awake long after sunset. Inside a modest hotel room only a few blocks from Stardawn Sportsbook... Thomas Reynolds sat at a small wooden desk. Spread before him were several folders from his California business meetings. He spent nearly an hour completing expense reports. Hotel receipts. Meal receipts. Taxi fares. Mileage notes. Everything had to remain accurate. Anthony had emphasized that point before Thomas left New York.

"If anyone ever reviews your travel records..."

"Nothing should appear unusual." Thomas intended to follow those instructions perfectly. After finishing his paperwork... He opened his wallet. The Daytona betting ticket remained exactly where he had placed it the previous afternoon. He removed it carefully. Read every line once again. Daytona 500 Exacta #43 Richard Kingston #3 Benjamin Carter Stake: $3, 000 He checked the serial number. Folded the ticket precisely along its original crease. Placed it back inside the protective sleeve.

Then, he locked the wallet inside his suitcase before closing it. No unnecessary risks. Not with a ticket that could soon become worth more money than he had earned during several years of work. Thomas switched off the bedside lamp. Tomorrow... Everything would depend on one race. 》》》》》》》》》》》》》》》 Sunday, February 14, 1971 The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted through Apartment 4B long before James entered the dining room.

Enzo was already seated at the table, reading the business section of the New York Herald while occasionally taking small sips from his porcelain cup. The apartment was quiet. Outside, Manhattan continued its usual Sunday rhythm. Fewer cars. More pedestrians. Church bells echoed faintly several blocks away. James took his usual seat across from his grandfather and reached for the international section of the newspaper. As always... He read every headline before choosing which articles deserved his full attention.

One immediately caught his eye.

PERSIAN GULF NATIONS REACH LANDMARK OIL AGREEMENT James slowly read the entire article. Several Persian Gulf nations had reached a major agreement with the world's largest international petroleum companies. The accord substantially increased the taxes those companies would pay while giving the producing nations a greater share of oil revenues. Financial analysts interviewed by the newspaper warned that energy prices would almost certainly climb over the coming years. James quietly folded the newspaper.

Enzo noticed immediately.

"Another important one?" James nodded.

"I think so."

"Oil?" James tapped the article with one finger.

"It doesn't look dramatic today."

"But if energy becomes more expensive..."

"Everything becomes more expensive." Enzo leaned back in his chair.

"Transportation." James nodded.

"Transportation."

"Factories."

"Factories."

"Shipping."

"Shipping."

"Wool."

"Canvas."

"Leather."

"Even the trucks delivering our products." Enzo smiled faintly.

"I suppose owning a manufacturing company means I should start paying closer attention to international news." James smiled back.

"It all connects eventually." Enzo chuckled.

"You've started sounding like one of those economics professors." James couldn't help laughing.

"Well..."

"I actually was one." The thought remained safely inside his mind.

The rest of the morning passed peacefully. Enzo prepared lunch himself. Simple. Homemade pasta. Fresh bread from Luigi Romano's bakery. Tomato sauce filled the apartment with the comforting smell James had known since childhood. They ate while talking about ordinary things. School. Baseball. The newest advertisements Leslie and Arthur Bennett were preparing. Neither mentioned the Daytona 500. They both knew exactly what time the race would begin. There was no need.

Shortly before the broadcast... Enzo walked into the living room carrying the portable radio. He carefully placed it on the coffee table. The wooden cabinet produced a soft crackle as the tubes warmed. He slowly adjusted the tuning dial. Static filled the room. Then... A confident voice emerged through the speaker.

"... good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen across America, and welcome to today's live coverage of the Daytona Five Hundred..." The excitement in the announcer's voice immediately filled the apartment. James settled into the sofa. Enzo remained in his favorite armchair. Neither spoke.

More than two thousand miles away... Thomas Reynolds sat inside a small café only three blocks from Stardawn Sportsbook. The owner had placed a large radio on a shelf above the counter. Nearly every customer inside was listening. Several wore racing jackets. Others carried folded racing programs beneath their arms. Coffee cups rested untouched as everyone focused on the broadcast. The waitress approached Thomas.

"Another coffee, sir?" He smiled politely.

"Please." She returned moments later.

"You here for the race?" Thomas nodded.

"I've been looking forward to it." She laughed.

"So has everyone else."

The engines roared to life through the radio speakers. The announcers described the colorful starting grid. The crowd. The waving flags. The atmosphere. James closed his eyes for a brief moment. He didn't need imagination. He had watched this race decades ago. He still remembered the result. What he didn't remember... Were all the laps leading to it.

"Richard Kingston has taken an early lead!" The commentator's voice echoed through both the Manhattan apartment and the Las Vegas café simultaneously. Enzo crossed one leg over the other.

"So far..."

"So good." James simply nodded. The race had only begun.

Lap after lap... The announcers described fierce battles for position. Drivers drafting together. Aggressive overtakes. Long pit stops. Mechanical troubles. One driver lost control entering Turn Three but managed to avoid a major collision. The crowd erupted. Even through the radio... Its energy was unmistakable.

Inside the Las Vegas café... Customers reacted to every important moment. One slammed his hand against the counter after his favorite driver dropped several positions. Another celebration was repeated loudly after a successful pit strategy. Thomas remained unusually calm. He simply listened. Occasionally glancing toward the clock on the wall.

Back in Manhattan... James appeared equally composed. Enzo looked toward him.

"You're calmer than I am." James smiled.

"I've learned patience."

"You?" Enzo laughed.

"That's difficult to believe."

As the race entered its closing stages... The commentators' voices became noticeably louder.

"Only ten laps remain!"

"Richard Kingston continues leading the field!"

"Benjamin Carter has moved into second place!" Enzo instinctively leaned forward. James did not move. His eyes remained fixed on the radio. Almost as if he could somehow see the race unfolding.

Five laps. Four. Three. The announcer was nearly shouting now.

"Benjamin Carter is closing!"

"The gap is shrinking!"

"Kingston defends the inside line!"

"Two laps to go!" Enzo unconsciously gripped the armrests of his chair. James quietly smiled.

Final lap. The excitement reached its peak.

"They're entering the final turn!"

"Kingston still leads!"

"Carter looks outside..."

"No opening!"

"They're coming to the finish!" A brief pause. Then...

"Richard Kingston wins the Daytona Five Hundred!"

"Carter crosses the line immediately behind him!"

"What an extraordinary finish!" For a second... The apartment fell completely silent. James slowly exhaled.

"It worked." Enzo closed his eyes and shook his head with an incredulous smile.

"I swear..."

"I'll never get used to this." James laughed softly.

"I don't think I will either."

At that exact same moment... Inside the Las Vegas café... Thomas Reynolds quietly lowered his coffee cup. No celebration. No raised voice. No smile that might draw attention. Only a slow breath of relief. He reached into his jacket pocket. His fingertips briefly touched the betting ticket still resting safely inside his wallet. Without removing it... He stood. Paid for his coffee. Thanked the waitress. And calmly walked back into the Nevada sunshine. Tomorrow morning...

The next phase of James Lombardi's carefully designed system would begin. 》》》》》》》》》》》 Monday, February 15, 1971 Washington's birthday had become a welcome day off for many workers across the country. Public offices were closed. Banks operated with reduced schedules. Schools remained quiet. For James... The holiday meant one thing. Waiting.

He had awakened earlier than usual. Not because he was excited. Because he wanted confirmation that the plan had worked all the way through. Winning the bet on the race was only half the operation. Actually collecting the money... That was where procedures, paperwork, and patience entered the picture.

Enzo noticed James staring absentmindedly out the apartment window while stirring his breakfast.

"You've been looking outside every five minutes." James smiled sheepishly.

"I suppose I have."

"You want to know how things are going."

"I do." Enzo folded his napkin neatly.

"I'll call Anthony after breakfast."

"No point imagining scenarios when we can simply ask." James nodded.

"Fair enough."

Nearly three thousand miles away... Thomas Reynolds buttoned his charcoal overcoat before leaving the hotel. The brown leather briefcase never left his hand. Inside it... Protected inside a document envelope... Rested the original betting ticket. Without it... Nothing else mattered.

The streets of Las Vegas were noticeably quieter than they had been over the weekend. Many tourists were checking out of their hotels. Taxi drivers waited patiently outside casino entrances. Neon lights still blinked despite the bright morning sun. Thomas crossed the street and entered Stardawn Sportsbook. The atmosphere felt calmer than it had three days earlier. Several clerks were already helping customers. The same betting boards remained mounted along the walls, although the odds had changed completely.

Horse racing now dominated one side. College basketball occupied another.

Thomas approached one of the betting windows. The young clerk looked up politely.

"Good morning, sir." Thomas removed the betting ticket from its protective envelope.

"I've come regarding a winning ticket." The clerk accepted it carefully. His expression remained professional. He checked the serial number. Then, I looked toward another ledger. After comparing several entries... His eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

"One moment, please." Thomas simply nodded. The clerk disappeared through a wooden door marked: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY Nearly five minutes passed. Thomas remained standing quietly. Several customers came and went. No one paid much attention to him. Finally... The same door opened again. A familiar middle-aged man in a dark suit emerged. Robert Callahan. Manager of Stardawn Sportsbook. He approached with a courteous smile.

"Good morning, sir."

"I'm Robert Callahan."

"The branch manager." Thomas extended his hand.

"Thomas Reynolds."

"It's a pleasure." Robert shook it firmly.

"I've reviewed your ticket."

"It appears congratulations are in order."

"That Exacta was... exceptionally well chosen." Thomas smiled politely.

"I was fortunate." Robert chuckled.

"Some would call it considerably more than fortunate."

Robert gestured politely toward a private office.

"If you wouldn't mind stepping inside..."

"There are a few formalities we need to complete."

"Of course." Thomas followed him.

The manager's office reflected the era perfectly. Dark wooden furniture. A heavy steel filing cabinet. Several framed racing photographs. A wall calendar. A large mechanical adding machine sitting beside stacks of paperwork. Robert motioned toward one of the chairs.

"Please." Thomas sat. Robert opened a thick settlement ledger. Every winning ticket of substantial value was handwritten inside. After locating the appropriate page... He carefully copied Thomas's ticket number onto another form. Then he looked up.

"Mr. Reynolds..."

"Because of the amount involved..."

"Our procedures require several additional steps."

"I expected as much." Robert appreciated the answer.

"It makes my job easier."

He opened another folder.

"This is an information return."

"It records gambling winnings above the reporting threshold."

"A copy remains with us."

"A copy is forwarded to the Internal Revenue Service."

"And another accompanies our accounting records." Thomas carefully read every line before writing. Thomas Reynolds Home address. Occupation. Signature. Date. He handed the document back. Robert inspected it.

"Thank you." He placed it neatly inside the file.

Next... Robert picked up the telephone sitting on his desk. He dialed slowly. Thomas could hear only one side of the conversation.

"Yes."

"This is Robert Callahan."

"Stardawn Sportsbook."

"I need Settlement Authorization." He paused.

"Ticket number..." Robert slowly read every digit. Then, it continued.

"Daytona Five Hundred."

"Exacta."

"#43 first."

"#3 second." He waited. Thomas remained silent.

Several minutes passed. Finally... Robert nodded.

"Understood."

"Thank you." He gently returned the receiver to its cradle.

He looked back toward Thomas.

"Everything has been verified."

"Your ticket is completely legitimate." Thomas wasn't surprised. Anthony had expected exactly this procedure.

"So..." Robert continued.

"The next step concerns payment." He folded his hands together.

"I'm afraid I can not hand you a check today." Thomas nodded.

"I assumed as much." Robert smiled.

"For ordinary winnings..."

"We can usually settle immediately."

"But a claim of this size..." He lightly tapped the ledger.

"... requires authorization from our corporate accounting department."

"The check itself must be prepared through headquarters." Thomas listened attentively. Robert continued.

"That process normally takes between twenty-four and forty-eight hours."

"When the check arrives..."

"It will be issued in your legal name exactly as it appears on your identification."

"It will also be crossed." Thomas nodded again.

"So it can only be deposited into a verified bank account." Robert smiled.

"I see you've dealt with banking procedures before."

"A little."

Robert stood.

"I expect the check to arrive no later than Wednesday morning."

"I'll personally telephone your hotel the moment it reaches our office."

"You won't need to keep checking." Thomas rose as well.

"I appreciate that." Robert extended his hand once more.

"And once again..."

"Congratulations." Thomas shook it firmly.

"Thank you." He slipped the receipt Robert had given him into his briefcase. The betting ticket itself remained in Robert's possession now, secured inside the sportsbook's settlement file until the official check was issued. Thomas quietly left the office. Outside... The bright Nevada sun greeted him once again. One more step had been completed. Now... It was simply a matter of waiting for the corporate check to arrive from headquarters.

》》》》》》》》》》》 Tuesday, February 16, 1971 The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted through Apartment 4B as James walked into the kitchen wearing his school uniform. White shirt. Dark blue sweater. Gray trousers. Enzo was already standing at the stove, turning strips of bacon while a kettle quietly whistled beside him.

"Good morning, Grandpa." Enzo smiled.

"Morning, James." The two sat down for breakfast. For several minutes, the only sounds were the clinking of silverware and the occasional traffic passing below East Street. James eventually noticed the relaxed expression on Enzo's face.

"You heard from Anthony?" Enzo nodded.

"I did."

"When?"

"Last night." James looked up with interest.

"So?" Enzo took a sip of coffee before answering.

"He spoke with Thomas."

The Previous Evening Anthony Russo remained in his law office after most of his employees had already gone home. The building had grown unusually quiet. He glanced at his notes before picking up the telephone. After the hotel operator connected the call... Thomas Reynolds answered.

"Thomas speaking."

"Good evening, Thomas."

"Anthony Russo."

"Good evening, Mr. Russo." Anthony leaned back in his chair.

"I won't keep you long."

"I simply wanted to make sure everything has been going according to plan." Thomas immediately understood what Anthony meant. Without mentioning Las Vegas... Without mentioning betting... Without mentioning any money... He answered just as carefully.

"Everything has gone smoothly."

"No unexpected situations." Anthony nodded.

"Excellent."

"Then continue exactly as instructed."

"I will." Anthony changed the subject without hesitation.

"How did your California meetings go?" Thomas relaxed.

"They were productive."

"I met with three prospective retail buyers."

"Two expressed strong interest in carrying our civilian product line."

"They asked about future production capacity and delivery schedules." Anthony smiled.

"That's good news."

"We'll discuss the details when you return."

"I've written everything down."

"Perfect." There was a brief pause. Anthony spoke once more.

"Travel safely."

"And don't rush back."

"You've earned a few days to enjoy yourself before returning to New York." A faint laugh came through the receiver.

"I appreciate that."

"Good night, Thomas."

"Good night, Mr. Russo." Anthony gently placed the receiver back on its cradle. That was all. No mention of sportsbooks. No mention of checks. No mention of winnings. Anyone listening to the conversation would simply assume a company lawyer was checking on an employee during a business trip.

Back to Tuesday morning Enzo buttered another slice of toast before continuing.

"Anthony didn't ask any questions." James nodded.

"He shouldn't."

"He simply confirmed that everything was proceeding normally."

"Exactly." Enzo smiled.

"He also told me Thomas had good news from California." James looked interested.

"Oh?"

"Two more retailers are apparently interested in carrying our Thompson civilian gear in the future." James smiled.

"So even while helping Vendetta..."

"He's still doing the job we sent him there to do." Enzo nodded approvingly.

"That's precisely why Anthony and Marcus selected him."

"A capable employee."

"A trustworthy one." James finished his breakfast.

"Good."

"Then now..."

"We wait." Enzo stood, picking up the empty plates.

"For the telephone to ring." James smiled.

"And for Thomas to come home." The operation remained invisible. Exactly as it had been designed. 》》》》》》》》》》》》》