and can?t find a slot. Here comes a long shot paying thirty to one and the players yell „boat race.?
Everybody wants to lynch Willie.”
We sat down next to the square little man, who was about sixty, had a face the texture of weatherbeaten wood, wore the same coat, rain or shine, winter or summer, and had a black cap pulled down
hard over his eyes. His binoculars were as big as he was. He didn?t talk much and was very cautious
about his clipboard, which is where all his information was scribbled.
He peered suspiciously from under the peak of his cap, recognized Callahan, gave him what I assume
passed for a smile for Willie, and scowled at me.
“This?s Jake, Willie,” said Callahan. “lie?s on our side.” Willie grunted and returned to his breakfast.
“What?s lookin? good?” Callahan asked.
The little man shrugged and ate a while longer. We sipped coffee while Callahan eyeballed the room.
He nudged me once and nodded toward a wiry little guy, obviously a jockey, who came into the
restaurant and sat by himself in a corner. The newcomer didn?t look a day over fifteen and wouldn?t:
have weighed a hundred pounds in a diving suit.
“Ginny?s Girl looks good in the fifth,? Willie said finally, then closed up for another five minutes.
Callahan didn?t press but finally said, “How about Disaway?”
Willie looked at him from the corner of his eye.
“Something special?” he asked.
Callahan shrugged. “Just wondering, y?know, after he dozed off in the stretch Sunday.”
“He?s lookin? fair.”
Another minute or so of silence, then:
“Not too crazy this morning; clocked cut at 3:22. Not bad since they opened him up at the threequarter and he?s usually a stretch runner..
He washed down a piece of dry toast with a gulp of black coffee, searched for something in the corner
of his mouth with a forefinger, then added:
“Track gets a little harder later in the day, he may tiptoe around. Right now I?d say he?s a toss-up to
place behind Polka Dits, who was kinda wild at the workout.”
“Talk at ya,” Callahan said, and we moved on again.
“You get all that?” he asked when we were a respectable distance from Willie.
“I think so,” I said. “If the track?s hard, Disaway?ll probably fold in the stretch again. If it stays soft,
he could come in second.”
“Very good. You?re learning.”
“The little guy you gave me the nudge on,” I said. “What was that all about?”
“That?s Scoot Impastato. Out of Louisiana. Started racing quarter horses when he was thirteen. Moved
up to Thoroughbreds when he was sixteen, if you believe his birth certificate. He?s a seasoned jockey,
