couple of races. There was no doubt about it now—I wasn’t winning today. In a couple of hours I’d be back home, in my living room, watching TV. Then, at six o’clock, I’d be back at work—another exciting night of sitting on a bar stool, checking IDs.
After I lost the third at Aqueduct, I started looking over the rest of the card. Now it wasn’t a matter of if, but how I’d lose—and then I looked up from my
Every racing fan dreams of owning a horse someday, just like every Little Leaguer dreams about playing in the majors. I always figured that after I became a famous actor, I’d own a whole stable of horses out at Hollywood Park in California. A lot of famous actors owned race horses and I’d always imagined myself going to the track with my girlfriend—some model or actress I was dating—and sitting in an owner’s box, watching my horses run.
But the way things were going I had a better chance of hitting Lotto than I did of making it as an actor. My manager hardly sent me out on casting calls anymore and I couldn’t blame him. He had to eat too, and I’d probably gone to at least five hundred auditions over the past nine years and I only got two parts—an understudy in some Off-Broadway play that closed after six performances, and a bit role in a kung fu movie that went straight to video. I did some extra work, when it was available, and I used to do a little catalog modeling, but lately I hadn’t gotten any work at all. It was always the same story—whenever I went to auditions for “big dark guys with blue eyes,” there’d be a hundred actors there who looked just like me. It was like being in a house of mirrors—looking around, seeing myself everywhere.
Six years ago, I almost had my big break. I screen tested to be in a romantic comedy with Melanie Griffith. The director, guy named Simon Devaux, loved me. I met Devaux at his penthouse on the West Side and he told me I reminded him of a young Brando. He said after this movie came out I was going to be one of the hottest stars in Hollywood, that I’d be able to write my own paychecks.
The day before I was supposed to fly out to the coast to meet with the producers and Melanie, my manager called me and said he had some bad news. I thought he was going to say my flight was canceled, but then he said no, it was a lot worse than that—Simon Devaux was dead. He drove off a cliff in Big Sur, on his way to L.A. from San Francisco. I felt like it was all some sick joke. I was so close to making it, then, all of a sudden, the dream was dead again. My manager told me not to worry about it—other offers would start coming in—but so far that hadn’t happened, and it was getting harder and harder to stay positive.
If I didn’t make it as an actor I had no idea what I’d do with the rest of my life. I did two years at Brooklyn College, but I couldn’t see myself going back to school—not at thirty-two years old. One thing for sure, I wasn’t going to be a bouncer forever. If I was forty and I was still sitting on a bar stool every night, I was going to stick a gun in my mouth and blow my brains out. I needed a back-up plan—something to do when my acting career fell apart for good.
I went toward the front of the fronton, out to the grandstand. I walked up and down the aisle a few times, looking for Pete in the stands, but I didn’t see him anywhere. I started to walk faster, looking around in every direction. I looked all over the building—in the bathroom, in the simulcast area, near the concession stands. I was about to go outside and look for his car in the lot, when I saw him walking away from one of the betting windows. I jogged toward him, reaching him right at the entrance to the grandstand.
When I called out his name he turned around. He didn’t exactly look happy to see me.
“I was looking around for you all over the place,” I said. “I thought you might’ve taken off.”
“Why were you looking for me?” he asked.
“Just wanted to say hello,” I said. “I also wanted to say sorry for before. I was a real asshole.”
The lights in the grandstand dimmed, and the usual loud trumpet music came on as the jai-alai players marched on to the court for the next game.
“I don’t want to miss the game,” Pete said.
“I’ll come watch it with you,” I said. “Where you sitting?”
“I got a reserved seat—up front.”
“The usher won’t bust my balls if I sit with you for one game,” I said. “I mean they have what, fifty people here today?”
I could tell that Pete was still pissed off, but he motioned with his head for me to come sit with him anyway.
We sat in the center section, in the fourth row. The elevated court was at eye level, and we had a head-on view of the game through the mesh that separated the players and the stands. Pete still smelled, but for some reason it didn’t bother me anymore.
“So who do you got here?” I asked.
“The one in exotics,” Pete said.
“I’ll root you home,” I said.
The one served to start the game. The two hit a weak shot back that the one put away for an easy
“That’s one,” I said, but Pete wasn’t looking at me.
The one took another point from the three, then lost to the four, hitting an easy shot right into the mesh. As usual, the game looked completely fixed and some people in the crowd started to boo.
“You’ll get’ em in the next round,” I said.
As we watched the four play the five I said, “So I was thinking about what you told me before—I mean in the car outside—about buying into a share of that horse. I was wondering if you could tell me a little more about that.”
“I thought you weren’t interested,” Pete said. He sounded pissed off again, but I didn’t think it had to do with me anymore. He was probably still mad about the one missing that easy shot.
“Yeah, well I’ve been giving it a little more thought,” I said. “I was thinking it might be kind of fun to own a piece of a race horse.”
The five missed an easy shot to give the four his second point. The whole crowd booed.
“It has to beat coming down here,” I said, “throwing your money away on these crooks.”
Pete smiled. I could tell he forgave me completely now for the way I had acted in the bathroom.
“The only problem is it’s a big risk,” Pete said. “Hopefully, we’ll make some money, but chances are we’re just throwing away ten grand apiece. The only reason I asked you to come on board in the first place was because I didn’t know what you did for a living. I thought you might have some expendable income or—what do the stockbrokers call it?—risk capital. But if you’re gonna have to go out on a limb—”
“Money’s no problem,” I lied. “I just wanted to know more details about it. You know, the way the contract works and shit like that.”
“I don’t have all the details with me,” Pete said. “But if you’re telling me you’re interested in this, Alan Schwartz, the Jewish guy I was talking about, can give you all the info. He has this package he printed up—you know, a prospectus. It explains how it all works. But I need to know one hundred percent because Alan’s a big-time Wall Street guy and I don’t want to waste his time.”
“I’ll have to think it over,” I said. “How about I let you know for sure in a day or two?”
“The sooner the better,” Pete said. “We’re looking to find somebody else by the end of the week. For all I know Alan already found somebody.”
The four made a great play, climbing the side wall to pull down a shot, then he backhanded a
“You’re right to stay away from this bullshit,” Pete said to me. “I have to be out of my mind, throwing my money away on these fucking
“There’s just one thing I’m still wondering about,” I said, hardly paying attention to the game, “but I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.”
“Shoot,” Pete said.
“You own Logan’s shoe stores so you must have some serious money. Why don’t you just buy a horse on your own? Or, if you don’t want to buy a whole horse, why don’t you just buy the fifth share for another ten grand? Why do you have to go find somebody else?”
Pete smiled, like he was thinking about some old joke, then said, “You kiddin’ me? I’d love to own a horse
