Pete was trying to make some more conversation. I stopped paying attention, but he didn’t get the message. He kept talking to me, not caring if I was listening to him or not. I didn’t know why Pete got to me so much. Yeah, he smelled and, yeah, he dressed like a slob, but there was more to it than that. Then it hit me—he was low class. I was sick of low-class people.
A few minutes passed, then Alan, Steve and Rob came up the escalator together. I guess I should’ve expected it, but I didn’t. They were all wearing suits at the Chinese restaurant so I figured they’d look at least as good today. Steve and Rob looked about as slobby as Pete—in jeans, sneakers, and sweatshirts. The only one who looked halfway decent was Alan, but even he didn’t look as good as he did the other day. He had a black shirt tucked into chinos and he was wearing shoes, but he wasn’t wearing a tie or a jacket.
As soon as the horse started making money I was going to take my share of the profits and buy my own horses. Then it was going to be sayonara to these losers. We all shook hands. Then Alan said, “Let’s all congratulate Pete for putting on some cologne today.” Everybody laughed except me.
Steve said to me, “So what are you, getting married today?”
“No,” I said.
“Then what’s with the ice-cream man outfit?” he asked smiling.
Everybody laughed again.
“This isn’t an ice-cream outfit,” I said. “It’s a five-hundred-fuckin’-dollar suit.”
“I was just busting on you,” Steve said. “You look great. I mean I’m going to my nephew’s Bar Mitzvah later and look how I’m dressed?” He waited a second then said, “Nah, I was just kidding. I got a suit in the car. I just figured I’d put it on in the bathroom at the temple.”
I couldn’t believe it. He had a suit in his car and he wasn’t wearing it now? Some kid’s Bar Mitzvah was more important than his first day as a horse owner? Was the guy out of his mind?
I was so shocked I had nothing to say. I just stood there staring.
Everybody stood around for a while, bullshitting. I didn’t say anything until Steve turned to me and said, “You’re not Jewish, are you, Tommy?”
“No,” I said.
“I didn’t think so,” he said, “I mean with a name like Tommy Russo. What are you, Catholic?”
I nodded.
“Me too,” he said. “So you got any plans for Christmas?”
“Christmas? When’s Christmas?”
“In two days,” he said
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” I said. “I’ll probably just hang out in the city.”
“That’s cool. Yeah, my wife and me are gonna head up to Massachusetts, to her sister’s house. Bores the hell out of me—not Christmas, just being up there in the sticks, you know? It’s up near Amherst, not far from New Hampshire. They have a dog track up there so I figure the day after Christmas I’ll—man, what the hell happened to you?”
I’d taken off my sunglasses to pick off the crust in the corners of my eyes. The other guys were looking over now too.
“I had to break up a fight at the bar last night,” I said.
“That’s a pretty nice shiner you got there,” Pete said.
“You should see what the other guy looks like,” I said.
I wasn’t trying to be funny, but everybody laughed.
I put my sunglasses back on. Alan, Pete and Steve started talking, and Rob said to me, “I was meaning to ask you—what’s the name of the bar you work at on the Upper East Side?”
“Blake’s Tavern,” I lied. Blake’s Tavern was a bar on First Avenue in the East Eighties, about twenty blocks away from O’Reilley’s.
“Oh,” Rob said. “The only reason I asked is because I heard that story on the news—you know, how that guy’s wife was killed. He owns some bar called O’Reilley’s.”
“I heard about that too,” I said.
“It was pretty fucked up,” Rob said. “They said the Super Bowl pool at the bar was robbed a few days before. Guy got away with fourteen grand.”
“I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t buy one of those boxes.”
“You can say that again.”
I interrupted whatever Alan was saying to Pete and said, “Don’t we gotta go up to the Steward’s office and put the slip in the claiming box?”
“Bill Tucker’s taking care of that,” he said.
“But shouldn’t we go up there anyway,” I said. “I mean what if he forgets to put it in?”
“He won’t,” Alan said, and he started talking to the other guys again.
I went to the bathroom. When I came out I saw a tall thin guy with curly gray hair standing with the other guys. I figured this was Bill Tucker.
When I came over Alan said, “And this is the fifth member of our little syndicate—Tommy Russo.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Same here,” he said. He had a strong Southern accent and, I was happy to see, he was wearing a gray suit.
“I think you’re one of the best trainers in the business,” I said. “I know a lot of people probably tell you that, but I really mean it.”
I realized I was still shaking his hand, maybe harder than I should have. I let go.
“It’s great to meet you,” Tucker said, flexing his fingers. “Nice to have some fresh blood injected into the racing industry.”
It was five minutes to post time for the first race. Rob, Steve and Pete went to bet, so it was just me, Alan, and Bill Tucker. I didn’t like the way Alan was trying to hog the conversation, talking to Tucker about shit I knew Tucker didn’t care about. So I cut him off and said, “So tell me, Bill—you don’t mind if I call you Bill, do you?”
“Bill’s fine.”
“So tell me, Bill. You ever had horses run at Hollywood Park?”
“Sure. Once in a while I ship to the California tracks.”
“What’s it like there? I mean behind the scenes. You go to parties a lot, I bet.”
“Sometimes,” Bill said. “But I spend most of my time up to my ankles in mud.”
“Yeah, but I’m sure you go to a lot of Hollywood-type parties.”
“Once in a while...I guess.”
“Yeah? You think I can go with you sometime?” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t see why not.”
The other guys came back from the betting window and Bill started talking to them. I wished Bill and I were alone, so I could get to know the guy.
Then Bill said, “Come on, I’ll take you folks out to my box to watch the race.”
We went in past the same usher who’d given me a hard time before. I gave him a big smile as I walked by and I could tell he felt stupid.
It was a nice day—sunny and warmer than it had been lately, probably about forty degrees. I probably needed a coat, but I didn’t wear one to the track. It didn’t matter—I was so excited there could’ve been a blizzard and I wouldn’t’ve noticed.
I sat in the seat next to Bill and the other guys sat on the other side of him.
“So you think your horse has a chance?” my actress-girlfriend asked me.
“As good as any of the other horses, sweetheart,” I said, puffing on a hundred-dollar cigar.
“But do you think he’ll win the race?”
“I don’t know if he’ll win, but he’ll run good. I know that.”
“What do you want to do after the races?”
“I don’t know. I figured maybe we’d go to that big party at Clint’s house.”
“I don’t want to go to Clint’s party, I want to go to Jack’s party.”
“All right, we’ll go to Jack’s party then.”
Pete was in the aisle, passing by.
“Not gonna bet on the race?” he said.