Chapter 1.

Pamela couldn't sleep. It was a perfect night for sleeping, safe and snug in her bed. Albuquerque's spring wind hissed soothing sand against her window, but she worried about tomorrow. How would Mr. West pay off her very first winning bet—her very first bet of any kind—without Grandpa finding out?

She wasn't afraid of being whipped with Grandpa's leather belt. She used to cry, but she was fourteen now, and hardened to beatings. But if he found out about her talent for picking winners, she would never, ever be able to free herself.

He would say that gambling was a sin, but Pamela knew that he gambled all the time. And drank whiskey. And took God's name in vain. All things that were sinful–when someone else did them. Pamela thought that the biggest sin was hypocrisy. It was a big word, but Pamela was as comfortable with a dictionary as she was with The Racing Form. Grandma's home schooling saw to that. No television, no computer, but lots and lots of books—of the Godly kind, anyway.

While she waited in bed for Grandpa to leave for work, she reviewed yesterday's bets for the umpteenth time. Grandpa's horse, Flashingwater, had finished ninth in a field of eleven. Her horse, Brown's Companion, had finished first, paying $8.40 for her two-dollar bet. She still couldn't understand why Grandpa had bet on Flashingwater. Brown's Companion had been the obvious choice. To her.

She hoped Mr. West would give her some paper money. It was time she had paper money of her own, like normal teenagers, instead of a few dropped coins she'd slowly accumulated so she could bet at all. She would ask him for a five-dollar bill and a one-dollar bill, using the extra two dollars to place her next bet.

The rumbling of the garage door told her that Grandpa left for his dental clinic. The sound of cascading water upstairs told her that Grandma was taking a shower. Pamela had ten minutes alone. Maybe Mr. West would come now.

She crept downstairs barefoot. Balancing on her left leg, she opened the door with her right foot and slipped into Grandpa's wood-paneled study. Today's Racing Form was on his desk, his own foolish bet circled in red ink. Careful to leave the paper exactly as she found it, she picked her best bet for the day–Plain Old Three, in the fourth race.

She left the study, closed the door, and crept silently back upstairs to put on slippers so Grandma Madge wouldn't complain. Pamela wasn't supposed to run about in bare feet, limiting her ability to pick up things. When Grandma went downstairs to make breakfast, Pamela followed her down and sat in the living room Lazy Boy, hoping she could intercept Mr. West before Grandma saw him.

Minutes passed, then hours, but Mr. West didn't come. Maybe he had tried to come but saw that Grandma was home. Around noon, Grandma Madge went out to mail a package. Pamela rushed to the speakerphone, took the pencil in her mouth, and tapped out Mr. West's number. Once again, the sleepy woman answered and said West wasn't in. Pamela didn't have time to ask questions, so she just told the woman to put two dollars on Plain Old Three. For Pamela.

Mr. West never appeared that entire day, and Plain Old Three came in a disappointing second. Pamela's talent for picking winner's wasn't perfect. She could have won a Place or Show bet, but all she understood was betting on winners. Even so, her Monday pick, Natty Simms, won by six lengths.

Peck My Pick won Tuesday. Garver X lost on Wednesday, but Sage Advisor, Armondolona, and Whispering Pet completed Pamela's first week of handicapping with three more wins. On paper–or, rather, in Pamela's head–West owed her $47.60. She had way more than doubled her tiny fortune in one week.

The following week, with four more winners, her fortune had doubled again. Mr. West now owed her $99.80. She should have been ecstatic, but without Mr. West coming to visit, she was more miserable than she could ever remember. She didn't really know him very well. She'd seen him at the house when he came to visit Grandpa, but the only time she'd talked with him was that day Grandpa and Grandma weren't home. The day she placed her bet.

He seemed awfully nice, and he knew Grandpa pretty well. But could she trust him? Stealing was a sin, so even if they weren't believers, wouldn't bookies have to be honest? If they weren't, wouldn't all their customers leave?

There was no betting on Sunday. Grandpa brought her down to the basement to help him refinish an antique table. Whenever he was sober and working in his shop, he found ways for Pamela to help, rather than doing everything for her the way Grandma did. She liked that–his being sober and treating her sort of like a grownup. She was especially good at sanding and polishing, using the pads he fitted to her arm stumps with adhesive tape.

He left for a few minutes to fetch a rag from upstairs. When he returned, he stood behind her, watching her work. "You know, maybe you're not hopeless after all. Maybe you could get a job in a furniture factory. Wouldn't pay much, but enough to live on–if you were a steady worker."

"If I had a job, I could pay you and Grandma for my food." He was always complaining how much it cost to feed her. She wished she could use some of her winnings to pay him back, but then he would know she was gambling. Besides, I don't have my winnings yet. If Mr. West doesn't show up soon, maybe I never will.

She realized Grandpa was talking to her. She swept her thoughts away from her missing fortune. "Yes, you could," he said, leaning close to the table top to scrutinize her work. "At least you could help out. But I'm thinking about when we're not here to take care of you. It would be good if you learned a trade, and it's damn sure you'll never be a dentist."

She ignored his swearing, though it stung her ears. "Would you teach me, Grandpa?"

He laughed so hard he began to cough. "You're too young for a job right now. But in a few years, after our lawsuit is settled, if no young man wants to take you off my hands, I may have to teach you some trade." He finished his examination of the table top and smiled approvingly. "And it might as well be finishing furniture."

Pamela lost herself in polishing the table to a high shine, dreaming of having a real job so she could go out of the house every day. So I can leave the house at all. And if Grandpa didn't drink, I would visit him and Grandma all the time.

Someone rang the front door bell, dispersing her daydream. At last, Mr. West.

She trailed Grandpa upstairs, but as was his habit, he made her hide in the closet so the visitor couldn't see her deformity, her missing hands.

She peeked. Someone selling magazines. Will Mr. West ever come?

Chapter 2.

Sunday night was cool but not windy. Pamela slept well, but was awakened by Grandma Madge's groans through the wall. She heard Grandpa open her bedroom door and peek in, but she pretended to be asleep. After a great deal of bumping and whispering, she heard the garage door open and the car start. She tried to stay awake, but fell asleep and didn't hear the car come back. In the morning, Grandpa shook her shoulder to force her awake.

"Come on, Miss Slugabed. Rise and shine."

As best she could, she rubbed the night grit out of her eyes with the corners of her stumps. She looked at her alarm clock. "It's too early, Grandpa."

"It's right on time. I took your grandmother to the hospital last night, so I have to get you dressed before I leave."

"Is Grandma sick again?" Even though she was worried about Grandma, she couldn't suppress a yawn.

"Of course she's sick. Why else would I take her to the hospital in the middle of the night? To visit a friend?" He yanked back the covers, shocking her with the wave of cool morning air on her bare legs. "Come on, now, or I'll leave you here all day in your nightgown."

Maybe, with Grandma gone, Mr. West will come today. She didn't like it when Grandpa dressed her, but she didn't want Mr. West to see her looking like a little kid in her nighty. I'm not a little kid; I'm fourteen, but Grandpa treats me like an infant. Grandma is much better. I hope she's okay.

She pushed herself to a sitting position and stretched. "When will Grandma come home?"

"How would I know that? I'm a dentist, not a doctor. She'll come home when she's ready to come home. I hope it's soon, because I'm stuck with you until then."

He yanked her nightgown over her head. She could do that herself, but she didn't want him to know. Besides, he would never have tolerated the amount of time it took her–especially since her dresses had recently grown tight on top. She submitted quietly, trying to look invisible in her nakedness.

He grabbed one of her three dresses–the plain brown one she liked the least–and pulled it over her head, hurting her ears in the process. The brown dress would be too warm for today, but she had to leave it on so he wouldn't know she could change by herself–dresses, at least.

She slipped into her sandals and went to the bathroom, knowing she had better prepare for a long day alone. If Mr. West came today, he would see her hair all knotted, but she knew better than to ask Grandpa to brush it for her.

She had to yell downstairs that she was finished with the toilet. When Grandpa had finished cleaning her, he told her he'd opened a can of Campbell's SpaghettiOs and dumped it in her dish. Cold. "Try for once not to make too much of a mess."

His face twisted into angry wrinkles as he muttered, "Why does this have to happen to me on a Monday?" He slammed the door between the kitchen and the garage. Pamela heard the lock click into place. Now she was alone.

She listened carefully. As soon as she could no longer hear Grandpa's car, she invaded his office to peruse The Daily Racing Form.

Joggle The Box in the first race had a far better pattern than any other horse at the local track, so she decided to phone in her bet early. Even though it was less convenient, she called from the living room so she could look into the patio and picture Mr. West sitting on the bench among the spring flowers.

She pawed the handset off its cradle onto its back on the small telephone table, picked up a pencil in her mouth, and laboriously pressed out Mr. West's number with the eraser end. She let the pencil fall back onto the table and pressed her ear to the earpiece. She hoped Mr. West might be home at this hour, but the same woman's voice answered.

When Pamela asked for Mr. West, the woman asked, "Is this Pamela?" Her voice sounded excited. Pamela wondered if she should hang up. Maybe I've done something wrong. Maybe I won too much.

"Yes," she said, finally. "I want to put two dollars on Joggle The Box in the first race."

"The hell with the first race. If I don't find out who the hell you are, West is going to joggle my box. And good. Who the hell are you?"

Pamela began to tremble. She didn't like the woman's language–or her angry tone. I think this was a mistake, a big mistake.

"Hey, are you still there. For Chrissakes, don't hang up! Just tell me who you are."

"Uh, I'm Pamela."

"I know that, God dammit. Pamela who?"

Her ears were burning, but she managed to squeak out an answer. "Pamela Ruka."

"Dammit, I know that, but who the hell is Pamela Ruka?"

Up until now in her life, Pamela had never had to identify herself beyond her first name. I don't know what she wants me to say. Maybe in a real school they learn these things. Or maybe it's a game I don't know.

But maybe I can turn the game around and learn something. "I don't know. Who are you?"

"I'm Jody, Jody Gallegos, but that's not important."

"Well, I'm Pamela Ruka. That's who I am. Don't you remember that I called you before?"

Jody Gallegos moaned. "Of course I remember. That's why I have to find out who you are or West will pulverize me. Come on, if you won't tell me who you are, how can we pay you what we owe you?"

That didn't make any sense to Pamela. "West can come over to my house and pay me. He came here before."

Pause. "He did?"

"Sure, and I gave him two dollars to bet on Crow Finder. But I lost. So he didn't come back. That's why I called him for the next bet, but I never got to talk to him. Only to you." She didn't know what else to say. She started to cry.

The woman must have heard her crying over the phone. "Hey, you don't have to cry about it. I just want to find out who you are. Are you sure West was at your house?"

"Yes. He was here on Saturday. Not last Saturday. The one before."

"And where do you live?"

"In my house. I mean, in Grandpa's house."

"And where is that?"

Pamela didn't know what to say. "I mean, on Windsor Drive, I think."

"Where on Windsor Drive? What number?"

"I don't know the number."

"Jeez, what do you know? Are you some kind of idiot?"

That made Pamela angry. "I am not an idiot. I'm very smart. I just don't know the number because I never needed to know. Maybe I could look it up in the telephone book." She had an idea. "Maybe I can find a letter."

"No, hold on. Don't go away. Listen, do you know your telephone number?"

Pamela hesitated, then saw the number under a plastic shield on the phone cradle.. "Yes, but you can't call me. Grandpa might be home."

"So?"

"He doesn't know I make bets, but Mr. West is his bookie."

"Oh, for Chrissakes, why didn't you say so? What's his name?"

"Walter T. Neely. He's–"

"He's your grandfather? Walter the Sponge? You mean you're the kid with no–. I mean, you're the kid who had the accident?"

"I did have an accident, when I was a little girl. But I'm okay now, except for my hands. I can use the telephone and feed myself–some things. And place bets."

"Right, kid. You sure can place bets. That's what West wants to talk to you about. You stay right there, okay? I'm going to call West on his cell and send him over to see you. Okay?"

That was definitely okay with Pamela. "I won't go anywhere." How can I go anywhere when I'm always locked in?

"Okay, goodbye. And remember, stay right there."

The woman hung up, and Pamela didn't move for a while, wondering if staying right there meant right there at the phone. It couldn't mean stay in the house, because what else could she do?

Chapter 3.

Maybe Jody doesn't know the doors are locked. Or that I can't open Grandpa's special locks. But Mr. West could open the screen door, the way he did before, with his knife.

She looked out towards the patio, realizing to her dismay that Grandpa had locked the glass door. Even if Mr. West opened the screen door, she would still be locked in–and he locked out. She bounded over to the door, but saw that the tiny recessed latch was all the way over in the locked position. She used to be able to open the old lock so she could play in the garden, but when grandpa found out, he changed to this new type of lock. She had never been able to open it.

Unwilling to surrender, she clamped her teeth on a sofa cushion and tugged it next to the door. Then she tugged the other two cushions and nudged them into a neat stack on top of the first. Lying on her back, she reached up to the latch with her right foot, her skirt falling over her head. This is not very ladylike, but I don't care.

She used her forearm to shade her eyes from the sun, then tried to insert her toe into the groove protecting the latch. As always, her big toe was too wide. She managed to insert her little toe, but it was simply too weak and flexible to budge the sliding latch.

She switched legs and tried again. No good.

She ran to the guest bathroom and saw the window latch was still open. Thank you, God.

Pressing both stumps against the glass and pushing up with all her strength, her arms slipped up the smooth surface and the window stayed put.

She tried the wooden frame. It had more friction than the glass, because it was rougher. Her right arm slipped, scratching the four inches of skin from her elbow to her sensitive stump. She ignored the pain and tried again, managing to open the window about three inches. Now, if Mr. West comes, I'll at least be able to hear him. And he can pass my money through the window. I think it will be all right now to rinse the blood off my stumps and have some breakfast.

After two interminable hours, she heard a car park in front of the house. She wasn't supposed to let the neighbors see her, so she hesitated before nudging back the curtains. By the time the curtains were open, Mr. West was already out of the car and out of sight. She rushed back to the patio door, tripping on the edge of the living room rug.

When he appeared in the backyard, Mr. West was wearing a pale yellow shirt instead of blue. She had somehow imagined he always wore the same clothes, so this new image was both exciting and unsettling.

He was carrying a paper bag. He motioned for her to open the door, but she shook her head then looked to her left. Without needing another signal, he took off around the house and met her at the bathroom window. Wow. When he lifts that window, it slides right up like it was greased.

He waved the paper bag. "I stopped on the way to buy us some popcorn. I hope you like popcorn–with butter. It's my favorite."

Pamela chewed on her upper lip. "Uh, Grandpa doesn't let me eat popcorn. It's bad for my teeth."

"Well, I'll bet he's just trying to keep all the popcorn for himself. Besides, I know your grandfather's not home, so you can eat anything you want."

West reached into the bag, but Pamela said, "No, you eat it. I don't really want any."

"Sure you do." He extracted a red-striped clown box and waved it at her through the window. "I've got one for you and one for me. I couldn't eat two anyway. I'd get too fat to catch up with my deadbeats."

"No, really, I don't want any. I just had breakfast."

He frowned. "Are you mad at me about something? Is that it? Because I didn't pay right away?"

"No, no. I'm not mad at you–"

"Then try this popcorn, to make me happy. Here … " He thrust the bag through the window, then slowly drew back his hand when he saw the wet spots on her cheeks. "Oh, Christ. Am I ever stupid. Stupid, stupid, dumb, and ignorant."

She was crying so hard, she almost didn't hear him take the Lord's name in vain. "No, it's all right, really." She wiped her face on the back of her arm.

"Can't you … I mean, don't you ever … What I mean is, how do you eat stuff like this?"

"Grandma feeds me. Or I eat it myself. But I never had popcorn. It's too hard to eat."

His face brightened. "Then you've got to have some, for the experience. You can't be an adult until you've eaten popcorn."

"But I can't do it." She was ready to cry again. Like an idiot baby. This wasn't going the way she dreamed at all.

"You can do it if I feed you." He reached into the box, took a fluffy yellow kernel between his fingers, and stuck his dark-skinned hand through the window. "Here, you can bite, can't you? Just stand up closer to the window."

When she hesitated, he taunted her. "I know you can bite. Even my dog can bite popcorn, and she's only four years old. So I know you can do it."

She forgot all about the popcorn. "You have a dog?"

"Yes, but I won't tell you about her until you try this popcorn. Go ahead, nobody ever died from popcorn."

She bravely touched the kernel with her lips, but when she tried to get her mouth around it, West let go too soon and the kernel bounced off the window sill and fell to the tile floor. Before he could apologize, she dropped to her knees and picked up the kernel with her mouth. He stared, unable to say anything except "sorry."

He recovered quickly, but she noticed and was puzzled. "It's my fault," she said, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. "Nobody ever fed me before except Grandma–and the nurses."

"Well, it takes two to tango. Here, I'll hold it better this time."

He waited until her mouth had completely surrounded his fingers before letting go of the kernel. She wasn't sure if she was tasting the popcorn or his fingers, but the taste was salty and nutty. Then the kernel got wet and most of it dissolved in her mouth. She smiled and opened her mouth for more.

"You like it, huh? What did I tell you? Here's some more. We have to finish these so we can talk."

West took turns putting kernels first in her mouth, then his. He was an attentive feeder, never letting her mouth be empty of popcorn for more than an instant. She marveled at the way he could hold several kernels with two fingers and a thumb, dropping them into her mouth at precisely the right moment. She was careful to touch only the popcorn.

When they had finished the entire box, except for some unpopped kernels, he crushed it and shoved it into the bag. "Had enough? Maybe we should have a little talk before we eat the other box."

"Talk. About what?"

"First, let me come inside. It's all right feeding you through this window, but I feel really dumb standing out here talking to you. And your snoopy neighbors are going to call the police when they see a black dude sniffing around your lily white neighborhood." He looked over his shoulder as if expecting a police car any moment. "Open the door, okay?"

"I can't."

"You mean you're not supposed to. You're not allowed to let anyone into the house when your grandfather isn't here, right? But it's okay, because your grandfather knows me."

"No, I mean I can't." She held up her stumps. "You know, I just can't open the locks."

"Oh, gotcha." He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a large wallet, from which he extracted a green plastic card. "Okay, leave it to West. I'll open that outside kitchen door. That should be easiest."

She ran to the kitchen, beating him by a few seconds. As she watched through the door's window, he tugged at the screen, but it was hooked on the inside. From his right-hand pants pocket, he pulled his long, pearl-handled folding knife. Flipping the blade open with a snap, he slipped it between the door and the jamb, at the level of the hook. He twisted his wrist. Pamela heard the hook tinkle against the door.

He put away the switchblade, then opened the screen door and propped it against his hip. He bent over, eyes level with the doorknob, and inserted his green card next to the lock. Pamela couldn't see exactly what he was doing, but in a few moments, he pushed the door and it swung inward.

As he stepped into the kitchen, he smiled back at the doors. "Piece of cake! Now let's talk about dogs and ponies."

Chapter 4.

Mr. West planted himself backwards on a kitchen chair, hands resting on the back rail. "That popcorn made me thirsty. Knowing your grandfather, I'll bet there's a cold beer around here somewhere. Can you get me one?"

Pamela frowned and said nothing. When she hesitated, he said, "Oh, rats. I did it again. You tell me where the beer is, and I'll get it myself."

"I can get it. I get them for Grandpa all the time."

"Then what's the problem?"

She hesitated. "Will you still be my friend when you're drunk?"

He simply laughed, showing lots of white teeth. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Grandpa isn't. I mean, he's not so bad when he isn't drinking, but he drinks almost all the time. Then he's not nice at all."

"Not to worry. The more I drink, the nicer I get."

"Really?"

Apparently he now realized she wasn't kidding. "Cross my heart. I'm an athlete. I would never abuse my body the way your grandfather does. One or two beers is my limit."

She still hesitated. "If Grandpa sees the empty can, he'll know I had a visitor."

"I'll take it away with the popcorn box. I'm sure he'll never miss one from his extensive collection."

"Okay." She headed for the refrigerator. She pulled open the door with her teeth, then reached in and clasped a can in the crook of her elbow. She shivered as she dropped the can on the table in front of him. "It's cold. But you'll have to pull the tab. I'm not very good at that. I can do it with my teeth, but Grandpa says it will chip them."

He popped the tab and took a long sip. "Hey, that's all right. I'm really impressed with the way you got that all by yourself. Do they leave you alone a lot?"

She was thirsty too, so before she sat down, she went to the sink, stood on her tiptoes, and nudged open the cold water, letting it run for a moment before drinking from the tap. She poked the tap handle closed, then sat down. "I'm only alone when Grandma goes out. That isn't very often, except now when she's sick and has to go to the hospital."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Is she okay?"

"Grandpa wouldn't tell me. But I don't think she'll be home today, so I'm all alone."

"What would you do if there was trouble? Like a fire?"

"Oh, I wouldn't start a fire. I can't use matches."

"Yeah, but fires start for a lot of reasons. If you can't open the door, you could fry in here."

I never thought of that. "The firemen would rescue me, wouldn't they?"

"Maybe. But maybe not." He took a thoughtful swig of beer. "Which I don't think is good enough insurance for my $30,000 investment."

"Thirty thousand dollars?" Pamela tried imagine such a sum, but failed.

"It would be more, but he does make payments. If he didn't pay once in a while, I would have stopped taking his bets long ago. Besides, what if you fell down the stairs or something? There's no way your grandfather would collect on that lawsuit, even if they didn't throw him in prison for neglect."

Her eyes went wide. " They can do that?"

"Sure. It's against the law to neglect a kid, especially if the kid gets hurt. Didn't the judge appoint a child advocate for you?"

"I think that's Miss Larson. What does she have to do with anything?"

"She supposed to see that you're taken care of."

"Sure, she does. She talks to Grandpa about how healthy I am, and to Grandma about my schooling. I'm way ahead in my schoolwork, so Miss Larson is very pleased."

"Does she know about what your Grandpa does to you?"

"I'm not to supposed to tell her those things, or I get a whipping."

West smacked his fist against his palm. "Do she know you're left alone all day?"

"Oh, that doesn't happen very often, except when Grandma's away. Why? Isn't it okay to be left alone all day. I kinda like it."

"It's not okay. I wouldn't even leave my dog alone in the house all day. And I bet she could jump through the window if there was a fire. I know she jumps through the window if there's a cat."

Pamela giggled. "She must be a big dog. What's her name?"

"Star. And she is big–about the same size as you. Maybe bigger. She's a German Shepherd, and she has to be big to guard all my money."

He was laughing, but she wondered. Does he really had a lot of money? Thousands? "Would you bring her over here someday, so I could meet her?"

"Aren't you afraid of big dogs?" He reached out and pulled her ear. "She could bite your ear off if she wanted to. And swallow it in one gulp while she was biting off the other one."

Pamela reddened and brushed her long blond hair from her face with the back of her arm. "I don't think I'm afraid, but I never met a real dog. Except Winky, but he's tiny. He's a poodle. Miniature. But I think Star will like me because Grandpa says I'm just like a dog."

"Huh? Why are you just like a dog?"

"Because I have paws instead of hands. That's why I have to eat off the floor."

"What!? That bastard throws your food on the floor?"

"Oh, no. Only when he's drunk. And when Grandma's home, she puts it on a plate." She pointed to her empty dog dish on the floor next to the refrigerator. "See, right over there. It's pretty clean, and I can get lots of my food for myself now."

Mr. West put his knuckles up to his mouth and stared intently at Pamela. She looked down to avoid his angry gaze, afraid she might have said something wrong. After a long time, he said, "Okay, that's clear. I can't let my feelings get in the way of business. But you're very valuable to me, so I'll see to it you're treated better."

Before Pamela had much time to think about what he meant, he reached back for his wallet. "Let's talk about the money I owe you."

Her eyes felt a mile wide when she saw the thick stack of bills Mr. West pulled from his wallet. Is that $30,000?

"It's not all mine," he apologized. "A lot of it belongs to my clients. I like to pay my winners promptly, in cash. It's good for business. On the other hand, I expect the same from them. I would have paid you, too, but I didn't know who Pamela Ruka was. I thought your name was Neely, like Walter's."

"Mommy's name was Neely, before she married my father. But he ran away after the accident."

"It figures," he said, flipping through the little black book he'd taken from his shirt pocket. "Hmm. You sure didn't inherit your luck from old Walter. It says here you picked eleven winners out of fourteen. I'd sure like to know how you did that."

"I only picked eleven out of fifteen, if you count our first bet." Always tell the truth. That's what Grandma says, but Grandpa lies all the time.

"I forgot about that, but what's the difference? At the time, I didn't think you were a serious horse player. I was just going to give your two dollars back next time I came over–and give you a lecture about the dangers of gambling. Now I owe you a lot of money."

"NInety-nine dollars and eighty cents. But you don't really have to pay me, because you said I could only bet if I gave you money in advance. So I didn't really win, Mr. West."

He slammed down the beer can. "Hey, hold on, kid. First of all, my name is West, not Mister West. Nobody calls me that. Got it?"

"Okay, Mr. ... I mean, okay West."

He nodded his approval. "And nobody feels sorry for me. Jody took your bets, so I owe you. I don't mess around trying to chisel my clients. Besides, the reason I noticed something was going on was that Jody started matching your bets last week–at the track, with twenty-dollar bets. So she made a bundle–ten times what I lost to you. That reduces my bills for her expensive habits."

I wonder what she buys that's so expensive. I'll bet she has nice clothes. "But I don't care about the money. Just enough for a taxi when I run away. I only kept betting so you'd have to come over sometimes and pay me for winning."

He checked his black book again. "Well, I'm here. And I intend to pay. But first you've got a few things to learn about your friendly neighborhood bookmaker. That $99.80 is track odds, and I wouldn't be in this business if I had to pay track odds. You have to subtract five percent, … "

"Then you owe me ninety-four dollars and eighty-one cents."

His head popped up from his book. "Hey! How did you do that?" He scribbled a few numbers in his book, then double checked. "You're exactly right–except I don't deal in pennies, so it's ninety-four-eighty." He put away his book. "You did that in your head? Without pencil and paper?"

"That's easy," she laughed. "Pencil and paper is what's hard–for me. I never learned to count on my fingers." She watched him carefully, to see if her joke was okay with him. Grandpa would have slapped her.

Instead, he slapped his own forehead with the heel of his hand. "There I go again. Listen, honey. You have to forgive me because I just look at you and see an ordinary little girl."

She frowned. He must have immediately realized why. "Sorry. A young woman. A pretty one, too, so it's easy to forget you … that you're different."

He was smiling, showing so many teeth that she couldn't help smiling back, even if she hadn't loved being called an ordinary, and pretty, young woman. I think that's called flattery. It's a kind of lying, because I'm not at all ordinary, and with my ugly stumps, I'm definitely not pretty. So why am I blushing?

"It's okay," she said. "I know you're not trying to hurt my feelings. Besides, I'm tough. Grandpa made me tough. He told me other people would make fun of me, so I'd have to learn to take it."

West frowned. "No way I'm making fun of you, kid. Listen, I know plenty about what it's like when other people laugh at you because you're different."

"Why? You're just like everyone else–except me."

"Except for this black skin all over my body. That makes me real different–to a lot of white folks."

"But why? You aren't missing any parts."

That made him snort. "If you don't know, I'm sure not going to explain it. But I'll bet you notice when people look at your arms and don't think you notice."

In response, Pamela twisted her face into a perfect imitation of her aunt Marilyn. West laughed. "You got it, kid. Exactamento."

She smiled at the compliment. "I don't meet very many people, but I remember Aunt Marilyn. She's married to Uncle Bobby, my mother's brother. They used to come over–until Marilyn got pregnant. Then I heard Bobby tell Grandma he was afraid it might hurt the baby because she got so upset when she looked at me."

She held up both arms to show what she meant. "But they moved to California anyway, so she doesn't come over any more. I never saw her baby–I think he's my cousin–but I hope he's okay."

"So you don't see your uncle Bobby any more? Who do you see? Who are your friends?"

Pamela studied the vinyl flooring. "Can we just talk about you? I don't have any friends, and I never do anything interesting."

"Except sit around the house and do calculations in your head. And use those calculations to pick winners."

What's he talking about? "But I don't use calculations to pick winners."

"But I saw you subtract five percent in your head, in a flash."

"Sure, but what's that got to do with picking winners?"

West took out his black book again. "You mean you don't calculate the winners?"

"No. How would I do that?"

"Then who gives them to you? You just said you don't have any friends, and I know you don't get winners from your deadbeat grandfather. And don't tell me you're just lucky. Eleven out of fourteen isn't luck."

"Fifteen," she corrected. "Eleven out of fifteen. But I'm not lucky. I just pick the right patterns. From The Daily Racing Form."

TO BE CONTINUED (ORDER THE FULL STORY BELOW)

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