Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [8]
When I called Pansy she rolled back in the door, looking expectant. I went to the fridge again and got a big slab of steak. “You’re a good girl, Pansy. Yes, you’re a fine girl, a perfect friend, aren’t you?” She happily agreed as I tossed the steak through the air at her, saying “Speak!” This piece was so big she actually chewed it for a second or two before making it disappear. The best things never last.
I went over to the couch Flood had occupied, took off my shoes, laid back against one of the pillows, and closed my eyes.
3
WHEN I WOKE up, it was already getting dark. Pansy was looking at me like she was dying to go out, but I knew that was an act. The dog has the metabolism of a diesel engine—she doesn’t move fast but she can go for days and days without stopping. I let her out to the roof anyway, like I usually do at night. While she was upstairs, I set about putting together my props for the night’s work. Miss Flood wasn’t the only person of honor on this planet. When I bet that hundred with Maurice, I was really betting that she’d show with the money she’d promised. I won that bet, but I didn’t expect to be as successful at Yonkers as I was at reading human character. And Maurice would want his money tomorrow. My heart doesn’t run a heavy risk of stopping from overwork—I only use it for betting on horses.
Tonight there was a lovely three-year-old going in a C–3 pace who hadn’t won all damn year. But he was a colt by Armbro Nesbit, who held the track record. I was there the night he set it. Usually, I have a tremendous bias in favor of horses who run off the pace and then come from behind in the stretch, like I’m always telling myself I’m going to do someday. But Armbro Nesbit always rocketed to the lead, dictated the fractions, and just dared the other animals to come at him. After his four-year-old season, his people put him out to stud, and he only got two crops before he died in his stall. A lot of asshole horse-players laughed about how he must have died happy, but they don’t know anything. He didn’t die happy. The only way Armbro Nesbit would have died happy was on the front end of the mile, charging for home.
Anyway, this horse I bet on tonight was his son, and I wanted him to win. And I realized that I’d have to see Maurice in the morning if I wanted to keep that line of credit open.
When I got Pansy downstairs, I called Mama and learned that this James character hadn’t called back. I went into the closet next door to dress since I needed to look good for the night’s Murphy Game. I fingered my one silk shirt. I love that shirt—it’s from Sulka’s and it cost me a hundred and fifty dollars. The way it works with Sulka’s is that you go in and order a dozen shirts, so they treat you like a citizen. But you have to know up front that they won’t make you a dozen shirts until they get one that fits perfectly. So, when I had the money, I went up there and got fitted. The sample they made me up was this beautiful rose silk, with no pockets and french cuffs with my initials (“mb” for Mister Burke) on the left cuff. I paid for the one shirt (a class outfit, they didn’t raise their eyebrows at cash), and told them I’d be back in a couple of days to pick out the rest of the colors I needed. I never went back, of course. But I couldn’t wear that shirt for this game, so I found a nice blue oxford-cloth buttondown, a plain blue tie, and a dark blue pinstripe that fell off a rack in the garment