a few minutes late arriving.
Callahan was waiting at the back gate, with his customary flower decorating a tan silk suit and his cap
cocked jauntily over one eye. Here was a man who dressed for the occasion.
“What?s the latest body count?” he asked dryly as we headed for the grandstand.
“I?ve lost count,” I said, not wishing to get into the Tony Lukatis thing. “What?s happening today?”
“Disaway?s going to win,” he said matter-of-factly. “Little storm drenched the track down just
enough.”
“Will it bring down his odds?” I asked.
“Doubt it. Hasn?t shown anything his last two times at bat. Players don?t trust him.”
“Are you going to put some money on him?” I asked.
“Never bet the ponies,” he said. “Rather give my money away.”
The stadium and grounds were exquisite. The grandstand, with its gabled roof and tall cupolas at the
corners, was Old South to the core. It could have been a hundred and fifty years old. Callahan led me
on a quick walk through the premises.
The place was jammed. The parking lot was almost full and people were milling about the betting
windows, worrying over their racing forms, studying the electronic totalizator boards, which showed
Disaway paying $33.05 to win, almost fifteen to one.
“He has to beat Ixnay,” said Callahan. Ixnay was the favorite, paying only $3.40 to win. “The eight
horse,” he continued. “Two horse, Johnny?s Girl, is favored to place. Then it?s nip and tuck among the
field.”
We went from the betting rooms to the paddock. Disaway and the rest of the horses in the first race
were on display. He was showing good temper, standing with his legs slightly apart, his nostrils
flared, checking out the crowd. Judging on looks, I would have had my money on Disaway. The other
horses in the first race didn?t look like they could carry his feed bag.
“Good-looking horse,” said Callahan. “Too bad he?s got such tender feet.”
“Who?s riding him today?” I asked.
“Scoot Impastato?s up,” Callahan said.
“I thought he was through with „Thibideau,” I said.
“Who knows,” Callahan answered vaguely. “Maybe he needed a ride.”
“Why would he do that?” I asked. “He seemed so dead against him the other day.”
Callahan looked at me like I had just spit on his shoe.
“How would I know? Why do you do what you do? Why do jockeys jock? Hell, they get fifty bucks a
ride, a piece of the purse if they win. Rainy days, when the track?s muddy, it?s easy for a horse to go
