I went upstairs to 409, had a stiff scotch and water, took some money out of the top drawer, went down the steps, got in my car and drove to the racetrack. I got there in time for the first race but didn’t play it because I hadn’t had time to read the
form.

I went to the bar for a drink and I saw this high yellow walk by in an old raincoat. She was really dressed down but since I felt that way, I called her name just loud enough for her to hear as she walked by:

“Vi, baby.”

She stopped, then came on over. “Hi, Hank. How are you?”

I knew her from the central post office. She worked another station, the one near the water fountain, but she seemed more friendly than most.

“I’ve got the low blues. 3rd funeral in 2 years. First my mother, then my father. Today, an old girl friend.”

She ordered something. I opened the Form.

“Let’s catch this 2nd race.”

She came over and leaned a lot of leg and breast against me. There was something under that raincoat. I always look for the non-public horse who could beat the favorite. If I found nobody could beat the favorite, I bet the favorite.

I had come to the racetrack after the other two funerals and had won. There was something about funerals. It made you see things better. A funeral a day and I’d be rich.

The 6 horse had lost by a neck to the favorite in a mile race last time out. The 6 had been overtaken by the favorite after a 2 length lead at the head of the stretch. The 6 had been 35/1. The favorite had been 9/2 in that race. Both were coming back in the same class. The favorite was adding two pounds, 116 to 118. The 6 still carried 116 but they had switched to a less popular jock, and also the distance was a mile and a 16th. The crowd figured that since the favorite had caught the 6 at a mile, then surely it would catch the 6 with the extra 16th of a mile to run. That seemed logical. But horse racing doesn’t run to logic. Trainers enter their horses in what seems unfavorable condi– tions in order to keep the public money off the horse. The distance switch, plus the switch to a less popular jock all pointed to a gallop at a good price. I looked at the board. The morning line was 5. The board read 7 to 1.

"It’s the 6 horse," I told Vi.

“No, that horse is a quitter,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, then walked over and put ten win on the 6.

The 6 took the lead out of the gate, hugged the rail around the first turn, then under an easy hold kept a length and a quarter lead down the backstretch. The pack followed. They figured the 6 would lead around the curve, then open up at the top of the stretch, and then they’d go after it. That was standard pro– cedure. But the trainer had given the boy different instructions. At the top of the curve the boy let out the string and the horse leaped forward. Before the other jocks could get to their mounts, the 6 had a 4 length lead. At the top of the stretch the boy gave the 6 a slight breather, looked back, then let it out again. I was looking good. Then the favorite, 9/5, came out of the pack and the son of a bitch was moving. It was eating up the lengths, driving. It looked like it was going to drive right past my horse. The favorite was the 2 horse. Halfway down the stretch, the 2 was a half length behind the 6, then the boy on the 6 went to the whip. The boy on the favorite had been whipping. They went the rest of the stretch that way, a half length apart, and that’s what it was at the wire. I looked at the board. My horse had risen to 8 to 1.

We walked back to the bar.

“The best horse didn’t win that race,” said Vi.

“I don’t care who’s best. All I want is the front number. Order up.”
We ordered.

“All right, smart boy. Let’s see you get the next one.” “I tell you, baby, I am hell coming out of funerals.”

She put that leg and breast up against me. I took a nip of scotch and opened the Form. 3rd race.

I looked it over. They were out to murder the crowd that day.

The early foot had just won, so now the crowd was conscious of the speed horse and down on the stretch runners. The crowd only goes back one race in their memory. Part of it is caused by the 25 minutes wait between races. All they can think of is what had just happened.

The 3rd race was 6 furlongs. Now the speed horse, the early foot was the favorite. It had lost its last race by a nose at 7 furlongs, holding the lead all the way down the stretch and losing in the last jump. The 8 horse was the closer. It had finished 3rd, a length and a half behind the favorite, closing 2 lengths in the stretch. The crowd figured that if the 8 hadn’t caught the favorite at 7 furlongs, how in the hell could he catch it with a furlong less to go? The crowd always went home broke. The horse who had won the 7 furlong race wasn’t in today’s race.

"It’s the 8 horse," I told Vi.

“The distance is too short. He’ll never get up,” said Vi.

The 8 horse was 6 on the line and read 9.

I collected from the last race, then put a ten win on the 8 horse. If you bet too heavy your horse loses. Or you change your mind and get off your horse. Ten win was a nice comfortable bet.

The favorite looked good. It came out of the gate first, got the rail and opened up two lengths. The 8 was running wide, next to last, gradually moving in closer to the rail. The favorite still looked good at the top of the stretch. The boy took the 8 horse, now running 5th, wide, gave it a taste of the whip. Then the favorite began to shorten stride. It had gone the first quarter in 22 and 4/5, but it still had 2 lengths halfway down the stretch. Then the 8 horse just blew by, breezing, and won by 2 and 1/2 lengths. I looked at the board. It still read 9 to 1.

We went back to the bar. Vi really laid her body against me.

I won 3 of the last 5 races. They only ran 8 races in those days instead of 9. Anyhow, 8 races was enough that day. I bought a couple of cigars and we got into my car. Vi had come out on the bus. I stopped for a 5th, then we went up to my place.