Ibby changed her clothes and came back down to find a dozen women dressed in maids’ uniforms buzzing around the picnic table on the back porch. Queenie was out there with them, standing off to the side, waving her hands around like a referee. Doll was leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms across her chest, watching them.
“Who are all those people?” Ibby asked.
Doll twisted her mouth to the side. “You know that newspaper Miss Fannie was looking at this morning? Sometimes she spends all day with her nose stuck in that paper, figuring the odds, working the numbers. This afternoon she’ll be in her favorite chair in the front room, glued to the TV, just to make sure her team won.”
“I don’t understand.”
“See all those women out there shoving their way toward the picnic table? Their employers wouldn’t be caught dead coming down here themselves. The women who live in these big old houses on Prytania Street send their maids down here a couple of times a week just to place their bets with Mr. Henry.” Doll pointed to the only man on the porch, who was busy scribbling on a notepad. “Mr. Henry works for Mr. Salvatore, who owns the little grocery over there on Garfield Street. Besides delivering the groceries, Mr. Henry brings line sheets with him every day so all the women in the neighborhood can place their bets. He’s kind a like a bookie.”
“Is that bad?” Ibby asked.
“No, baby. That’s a good thing, especially where Miss Fannie is concerned. You see, Miss Fannie, she’s got a good track record, she do her homework, knows what to bet on. She made a lot a money that way. People found out. Started coming around, asking Miss Fannie for advice.”
“What do they bet on?”
“Lawd, child, all sorts of things. Horses. Dogs. Football. Who’s gone win the next election. When the first hurricane’s gone hit. Right now, they betting on horses, baseball, Wimbledon, the Olympic trials, and a few golf tournaments. Your grandmother, she can recite the odds right off the top of her head. So almost every morning, the second Mr. Henry shows up in our driveway on his red bicycle, it’s like a stampede to the back door. That’s why Miss Fannie jumped up and got dressed so quick-like. She knew what was coming.”
Ibby pointed at the mob of women. “Fannie’s out there?”
“Sure is. Smack dab in the middle, settin’ at the picnic table yelling out her picks to Mr. Henry. It’s a little game she like to play.” Doll shook her head.
“Baltimore over New York, three to one,” Fannie said.
“What she say?” one of the women asked.
“Philly,” another one answered.
“No, Baltimore,” another said.
“Miss Fannie won’t write her picks down for nobody but Mr. Henry, so he don’t get confused,” Doll went on. “But the women, they have to listen close, see if they can figure out what she telling Mr. Henry. They get it wrong half the time, but still, they do pretty good.”
Fannie let the women argue among themselves before she threw out another bet. “Emerson over Stolle, three sets to one in the finals.”
“Who?” one of the women asked.
“Shhhh. I can’t hear if you keep talking, Millie,” another said.
Doll shook her head. “The ladies of the house, they happy with the extra money they make off betting, helps buy them pretty dresses or that extra pair of shoes they been wanting but their husbands won’t pay for. And all those women out there in those maid uniforms? They like it ’cause they make a few extra bucks each week on account they get to place their own bets when they come. Makes everybody happy.”
Ibby and Doll watched the women bickering with one another. Poor Mr. Henry was scribbling down what Fannie told him, but every once in a while, even he had to look up and ask her to repeat the bet.
“What was that you say?” Mr. Henry squinted.
“Broncos to pick up Billy Lott from the Patriots.”
Mr. Henry nodded and scribbled some more.
Doll sighed. “Miss Fannie has made a pretty penny on her picks. Everyone knows about it. Shucks, a few days, we even get the police coming around, asking Miss Fannie for tips. Used to scare the living daylights out of me when them blue uniforms would show up and knock on the door, but now I’m used to it. Most a the time, anyhow.”
Money was being shoved at Mr. Henry from all directions. He’d look around, trying to see who was doing the shoving, and each time he did, his head hit one of the plastic penny bags hanging from the rafters. It kept swinging around and hitting him in the face no matter how many times he swatted it away. Grab the money, swat, grab the money, swat the bag again. Ibby stifled a giggle.