The track had moved down the coast a hundred miles or so. I kept paying the rent on my apartment in town, got in my car and drove down. Once or twice a week I would drive back to the apartment, check the mail, maybe sleep overnight, then drive
back down.

It was a good life, and I started winning. After the last race each night I would have one or two easy drinks at the bar, tip– ping the bartender well. It looked like a new life. I could do no wrong.

One night I didn’t even watch the last race. I went to the bar.
$50 to win was my standard bet. After you bet 50 win a while it feels like betting 5 win or 10 win.

“Scotch and water,” I told the barkeep. “Think I’ll listen to this one over the speaker.”

“Who you got?”

“Blue Stocking,” I told him. "50 win." “Too much weight.”

“Are you kidding? A good horse can pack 122 pounds in a 6 thousand dollar claimer. That means, according to the conditions, that the horse has done something that no other horse in that race has done.”

Of course, that wasn’t the reason I had bet Blue Stocking. I was always giving out misinformation. I didn’t want anybody else on board.

At the time, they didn’t have closed circuit t.v. You just lis– tened to the calls. I was $380 ahead. A loss on the last race would give me a $330 profit. A good day’s work.
We listened. The caller mentioned every horse in the race but Blue Stocking.

My horse must have fallen down, I thought.

They were in the stretch, coming down toward the wire. That track was notorious for its short stretch.

Then right before the race ended the announcer screamed, “AND HERE COMES BLUE STOCKING ON THE OUTSIDE! BLUE STOCKING IS GETTING UP I IT’S . . . BLUE STOCK– ING!”

“Pardon me,” I told the bartender, “I’ll be right back. Fix me a scotch and water, double shot.”

“Yes, sir!” he said.

I went put back where they had a small tote board near the walking ring. Blue Stocking read 9/2. Well it wasn’t 8 or 10 to one. But you played the winner, not the price. I’d take the $250 profit plus change. I went back to the bar.

“Who do you like tomorrow, sir?” asked the barkeep.

“Tomorrow’s a long way off,” I told him.

I finished my drink, tipped him a dollar and walked off.