“Where’s your sister?” I asked him.
“I don’t know.”
“This is a fine car. I can’t even hear the engine.”
Larry smiled. He liked that.
There were just 3 of us going to the funeraclass="underline" son, lover and the subnormal sister of the owner of the hotel. Her name was Marcia. Marcia never said anything. She just sat around with this inane smile on her lips. Her skin was white as enamel. She had a mop of dead yellow hair and a hat that would not fit. Marcia had been sent by the owner in her place. The owner had to watch the hotel.
Of course, I had a very bad hangover. We stopped for coffee.
Already there had been trouble with the funeral. Larry had had an argument with the Catholic priest. There was some doubt that Betty was a true Catholic. The priest didn’t want to do the service. Finally it was decided that he would do half a service. Well, half a service was better than none.
We even had trouble with the flowers. I had bought a wreath of roses, mixed roses, and they had been worked into a wreath. The flower shop spent an afternoon making it. The lady in the flower shop had known Betty. They had drank together a few years earlier when Betty and I had the house and dog. Delsie, her name was. I had always wanted to get into Delsie’s pants but I never made it.
Delsie had phoned me. “Hank, what’s the matter with those bastards?”
“Which bastards?”
“Those guys at the mortuary.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I sent the boy in the truck to deliver your wreath and they didn’t want to let him in. They said they were closed. You know, that’s a long drive up there.”
“Yeah, Delsie?”
“So finally they let the boy put the flowers inside the door but they wouldn’t let him put them in the refrigerator. So the boy had to leave them inside the door. What the hell’s wrong with those people?”
“I don’t know. What the hell’s wrong with people everywhere?”
“I won’t be able to be at the funeral. Are you all right, Hank?”
“Why don’t you come by and console me?”
“I’d have to bring Paul.”
Paul was her husband.
“Forget it.”
So there we were on our way to 1/2 a funeral.
Larry looked up from his coffee. “I’ll write you about a headstone later. I don’t have any more money now.”
“All right,” I said. Larry paid for the coffees, then we went out and climbed into the Mercedes-Benz.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
“What is it?” asked Larry.
“I think we forgot something.”
I walked back into the cafe.
“Marcia.”
She was still sitting at the table.
“We’re leaving now, Marcia.”
She got up and followed me out.
The priest read his thing. I didn’t listen. There was the coffin. What had been Betty was in there. It was very hot. The sun came down in one yellow sheet. A fly circled around. Halfway through the halfway funeral two guys in working clothes came carrying my wreath. The roses were dead, dead and dying in the heat, and they leaned the thing up against a nearby tree. Near the end of the service my wreath leaned forward and fell flat on its face. Nobody picked it up. Then it was over. I walked up to the priest and shook his hand, “Thank you.” He smiled. That made two smiling: the priest and Marcia.
On the way in, Larry said again:
“I’ll write you about the headstone.”
I’m still waiting for that letter.
11
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 conditions 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 procedure. 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.