Women - Charles Bukowski [168]
The cab came. At my place, luckily, there was beer and some vodka. I had given up all hope of staying sober enough to make love. Katherine knew it. I paced up and down talking about my ’67 blue Volks. The last good model. I couldn’t even call the police. I was too drunk. I’d have to wait until morning, until noon.
“Hepburn,” I told her, “it’s not your fault, you didn’t steal it!”
“I wish I had, you’d have it now.”
I thought of 2 or 3 young kids racing my blue baby down along the Coast Highway, smoking dope, laughing, opening it up. Then I thought of all the junkyards along Santa Fe Avenue. Mountains of bumpers, windshields, doorhandles, wiper motors, engine parts, tires, wheels, hoods, jacks, bucket seats, front wheel bearings, brake shoes, radios, pistons, valves, carburetors, cam shafts, transmissions, axles—my car soon would be just a pile of accessories.
That night I slept up against Katherine, but my heart was sad and cold.
38
Luckily I had auto insurance that paid for a rental car. I drove Katherine to the racetrack in it. We sat in the sundeck at Hollywood Park near the stretch turn. Katherine said she didn’t want to bet but I took her inside and showed her the toteboard and the betting windows.
I put 5 win on a 7 to 2 shot with early lick, my favorite kind of horse. I always figured if you’re going to lose you might as well lose in front; you had the race won until somebody beat you. The horse went wire to wire, pulling away at the end. It paid $9.40 and I was $17.50 ahead.
The next race she remained in her seat while I went to make my bet. When I came back she pointed to a man two rows below us. “See that man there?”
“Yes.”
“He told me he won $2,000 yesterday and that he’s $25,000 ahead for the meet.”
“Don’t you want to bet? Maybe we all can win.”
“Oh no, I don’t know anything about it.”
“It’s simple: you give them a dollar and they give you 84 cents back. It’s called the ‘take.’ The state and the track split it about even. They don’t care who wins the race, their take is out of the total mutual pool.”
In the second race my horse, the 8 to 5 favorite, ran second. A longshot had nosed me at the wire. It paid $45.80.
The man two rows down turned and looked at Katherine. “I had it,” he told her, “I had ten on the nose.”
“Oooh,” she told him, smiling, “that’s good.”
I turned to the third race, an affair for 2-year-old maiden colts and geldings. At 5 minutes to post I checked the tote and went to bet. As I walked away I saw the man two rows down turn and begin talking to Katherine. There were at least a dozen of them at the track every day, who told attractive women what big winners they were, hoping that somehow they would end up in bed with them. Maybe they didn’t even think that far; maybe they only hoped vaguely for something without being quite sure what it was. They were addled and dizzied, taking the 10-count. Who could hate them? Big winners, but if you watched them bet, they were usually at the 2 dollar window, their shoes down at the heels and their clothing dirty. The lowest of the breed.
I took the even money shot and he won by 6 and paid $4.00. Not much, but I had him ten win. The man turned around and looked at Katherine. “I had it,” he told her. “$100 to win.”
Katherine didn’t answer. She was beginning to understand. Winners didn’t shoot off their mouths. They were afraid of getting murdered in the parking lot.
After the fourth race, a $22.80 winner, he turned again and told Katherine, “I had that one, ten across.”
She turned away. “His face is yellow, Hank. Did you see his eyes? He’s sick.”
“He’s sick on the dream. We’re all sick on the dream, that’s why we’re out here.”
“Hank, let’s go.”
“All right.”
That night she drank half a bottle of red wine, good red wine, and she was sad and quiet. I knew she was connecting me with the racetrack people and the boxing crowd, and it was true, I was with them, I was one of them. Katherine knew that there was something about me that was not wholesome in the sense of wholesome