Blue Belle

one.

'That's a quarter for the pencil, lady,' the guy called out.

Belle looked at him like he was deranged. 'For this little thing?' She tossed it back into the box.

'Behave yourself,' I told her, taking her hand to lead her outside. A booth about the size of a one-bedroom apartment was set up outside, open along the sides, canvas across the top. Barbecue grill inside. 'Want something?' I asked her.

Smart move. She ordered four hamburgers with everything, two beers. The guy behind the counter finally stopped staring and barked the order over his shoulder, not moving his eyes from her chest.

'What're you getting, pal?' the counter geek asked me.

'He gets it later,' Belle assured him.

The guy's jaw went from gaping to unhinged.

I paid the money, carrying a beer in each hand, motioning for Belle to climb the stairs ahead of me, admiring the view. We found seats in the outside grandstand, right near the top of the stretch.

Belle put her hamburgers on one seat, took some napkins, and thoroughly cleaned off two more. She took a slug of beer, then handed it back to me to hold for her while she worked on the burgers.

'You see that guy's face?' she asked innocently. 'Michelle was right about the makeup.'

When she finished eating, I stowed the refuse under our seats, lit a smoke, and opened the program. Belle slouched against me, her head on my shoulder, holding the last beer in one hand.

'What do all those little numbers mean?'

'They all mean something different. You really want to know?'

'Yes,' she said, sounding injured.

I went through it quickly, just once over lightly. Showed her how you could tell the horse's age, sex, color, breeding, all that kind of thing. I was up to the comparative speed ratings at the different tracks and she was still paying attention.

'What's the most important?' she wanted to know.

'What d'you mean?'

'Like, all that stuff. It can't all mean the same thing.'

'Belle, that's the trick of it. It all means different things to different people. Some people like speed, some people like breeding, some people . . .'

She cut me off. 'What about you? You think breeding is important?'

I looked at her face against my shoulder. 'Class is what's important to me. Heart. Going the distance. Breeding don't mean a thing.'

'But breeding has to count for something, right? Or they wouldn't put it there,' she said, pointing to the program.

'They put everything on the program, girl. Because the gamblers want to know, see? What possible difference could a horse's color make? That's on there too.'

'But it must . . .'

'It does mean something, Belle. I've been looking at horses since I was a kid - I'll tell you what it means – you want to tell if a horse has real class, you look at its mother.'

She tilted her head up to me, a smile growing. 'Truly?'

'That's the way nature made it, girl. You can never know for sure who the father of a baby is, but there's never a doubt about the mother.'

'Never a doubt,' she agreed, patting my thigh. The P.A. system blared into life; the horses were on the track for the first race. Belle watched as they paraded in front of the grandstand behind the marshal. She lit a cigarette, watching everything, leaning forward in her seat, her hand on my knee.

The tote board said two minutes to post time. 'Are you going to make a bet, honey?'

'Not this race,' I told her, watching.

Belle sipped delicately at her second beer. The very image of a lady, about ten percent past life-size.

The race wasn't much. If I'd had binoculars, I would have looked for Lupe.

Belle finished her beer. 'Who's going to win the next race?'' she demanded.

I studied the program. Same class, same crop. Mostly older horses on the way down. But there was one four-year-old, a Warm Breeze mare; Hurricane was her name. I pointed her out on the program.

'This one's getting stronger all the time - maybe she's a late bloomer.'

Belle lit a smoke. 'I like this,' she said, watching the horses come out for the post parade. 'Which one is ours?'

'The five horse,' I told her. 'The one with the white blanket.'

'She's pretty. Kind of small, though.'

At five minutes to post, Hurricane was up to 15-1.

'Let's bet on her,' Belle said.

'Okay. I'll be right back,' I said, getting up.

'Can't I come too?'

'Come on,' I said, ripping the front and back covers off the program and folding the pages into the rungs of our seats to mark them as ours.

She held my hand as we walked to the windows. A group of Latins were standing against a pole, arguing about the race in Spanish. One blurted out 'Mira, mira!' as we walked by. Belle stiffened. 'It just means 'Look at that!' 'I said to her, squeezing her hand. 'Must be those vertical stripes.'

I threw a double-sawbuck down on the mare.

Back in our seats, Belle squirmed, swiveling her head so she wouldn't miss anything. I lit a smoke as they called the horses to the gate. As the car pulled off, the horses charged into the first turn, fighting for position. Hurricane didn't get off quickly - she was pushed to the outside, deep in the pack.

'Oh, she's losing!'

Hurricane moved wide on the paddock turn, gaining a little ground. The three horse was in front, the six next to him, Hurricane running behind the six.

Belle was pounding her fist on my knee, bouncing a little in her seat. 'Come on! '

Hurricane fired on the back stretch, going three-wide around the horse in front of her, collaring the leader. But she couldn't pull ahead, and the three horse looked fresh. The two of them ran away from the pack into the final turn and pounded for home, not giving an inch.

'Don't quit, baby!' Belle yelled.

The three horse pulled a neck ahead, but the mare wouldn't give it up. She reached down and found something, shot forward again. The crowd roared - the three horse was the odds-on favorite. They crossed the finish line together - too far down the track for me to see who came out on top. 'Photo' shot up on the board.

'Did she win?'

'I don't know, Belle. It was close - we have to wait for the photo.'

'She didn't quit, though, did she?'

'Sure as hell didn't.'

The crowd buzzed. The 'Photo' came down and the numbers went up: '5-3-4.'

Belle stood up, her hands on the railing, leaning out into the night. 'Good girl!' she shouted to the mare. Heads turned toward the sound; the male heads stayed turned. I grabbed her hand, pulled her back into her seat.

Hurricane drove past us, heading for the stable. Belle stood up again, clapping her hands. 'Oh, she's beautiful!' she said, happy as a kid at Christmas. The kind of Christmas the Cosby kids have.

I lit a smoke. Almost $350 to the good. With Mystery Mary last night, I was on the longest winning streak of my career.

'Burke, it's just like you said. Heart. She had heart - she went the distance.'

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