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“Are you all right, sir?” I ask, even though it’s obvious he isn’t.

“Mind your beeswax, fucko,” he says.

I walk back into my room, fantasize briefly of punishing the old cruster for calling me fucko, and then decide his life is punishment enough and besides, at this point, I am a fucko. A no-good has-been. I’m nearly thirty-five years old and my distinctly lackluster riding career is over after five wins, five seconds, and eighteen thirds. I’ve got two grand in the bank and a crummy rented basement apartment. The woman I thought I might fall in love with has disappeared, my wife is insane, and my daughter probably hates me. I am a fucko.

The filthy carpet is cold under my bare feet so I get back in bed, pull the blanket over my head and ponder what possessed me to come to this rancid hotel. I had a notion I’d run into Ruby by staying here, just a block from her place. She’d once pointed the Sea Breeze Hotel out to me and told me she’d spent a night here long ago, before she’d moved to Coney. I figured if she could stomach it, it wouldn’t be all that bad. I was wrong. The place is the worst kind of dive and what’s more, I haven’t been able to find Ruby. I’ve called, I’ve rung her buzzer, I’ve even run into Ramirez, the grouchy neighbor, but he didn’t know where she was either. And now I’ve had a fitful cold night and been awakened by the old wheezer next door. Though if I think about it, it’s all icing on the cake since I expected to be dead by now.

One thought that’s kept my instinct for self-preservation alive and well is my daughter, Grace. I’m not sure I trust Ava to stay sane enough to properly raise our daughter and I dread to think what would happen if my drunken father somehow got custody or worse yet, Ava’s rigid right-wing parents. I start obsessing over the whole thing and it occurs to me to write out a will and attempt to assign custody to someone I trust. I spend a few moments contemplating this but the only person I can think of is Violet Kravitz and I can’t quite picture the lady’s reaction to being willed a child. It seems if she wanted one, she’d have gone ahead and had one.

I eventually get out of bed and put my clothes on. They don’t smell all that good but I’m afraid to go back to my apartment to get clean things. I probably shouldn’t even be within miles of Coney Island since whoever is trying to do me in has tried doing it here. But the fact is, I have no idea what to do or where to go. I suppose I could go back to North Carolina. I’ve got a few friends there. I could probably get work on a horse farm. Eke out an existence—but little more. Life without racing isn’t much of a life and I’m too old to start from scratch.

None of these thoughts serve to cheer me or make the dank hotel room less dank. I throw water on my face, run my fingers through my hair, then put my jacket on and go down to the front desk to return my key to the rail thin black woman at reception. She says nothing as I hand her the key and thank her.

I’ve completely forgotten about the car and probably wouldn’t have remembered until much later had I not walked right by it. I bought it yesterday afternoon before going to ride my last race. I figured if there was any chance of my staying alive, I’d need a car. I’d known for a while that Pepe, one of Violet and Henry’s exercise riders, was trying to sell his Gremlin. The car is bright orange. Not the most anonymous car in the world but cheap and available on short notice. Pepe wanted two grand for it but I got him down to twelve hundred. The thing will probably die after fifty miles but it’s better than nothing. I unlock it and get in. I still have no idea where I’m going. I take my phone out and try Ruby’s various numbers once more for good measure, not really expecting her to be there. I start wondering if she’s suddenly packed up her cats and left town.

I put the phone away and stare at the gray silence of Surf Avenue. I’ve never seen it this sleepy and contained and I remember pictures Ruby showed me of this strip a hundred years ago.