Young Lonigan - James T. Farrell [357]
“Al’s Pink Sheet picks Sir Canafe, and he’s the consensus of the experts, too. And Al’s Pink Sheet is pretty reliable. I’ve been following it now for a long time and it’s given me some good pickings. Why, one day two months ago I bet on all Al’s choices and I won twelve bucks. And the other night I didn’t have nothing to do, so I checked back through a number of old copies of Al’s Pink Sheet, and you know, he picked fifteen steeplechase winners over the period I checked through.”
“I tried all the dope sheets, and I finally found that Sunshine Sam’s is the most reliable. He picks more winners than any of ’em, and he’s good on the jump races, too. He picks Fielder’s Choice.”
“I used to go by Sunshine Sam’s dope, but it never did nothing but put my dough in a bookie’s pocket.”
“Al’s Pink Sheet never won me anything but grief.”
The door kept opening, admitting more and more newcomers. Studs moved around kind of wishing some lad he knew would happen in, keeping his eyes, all the time, peeled on the neat trick in blue, who, studying her dope sheet with her legs crossed, showed one leg a little above the knee.
“I wish I could have the luck I had four months ago. In one week I cleaned up a hundred bucks. Since then, I’ve had lots of luck, but it’s all been bad. You know, I made a pickup I met at the Bourbon Palace, and the bitch dosed me. And then, goddamn it, before I knew that, I made the grade with my girl. So now I got a doctor’s bill on my hands, and my girl won’t speak to me, either. She’ll only send me the bill. Lots of luck, and all lousy.”
“How about a job?”
“Well, I could work with my old man, only, hell, if I can have another lucky streak on the ponies, why I can clean up more here in a day than working a week for him. And I know a lad, Buddy Coen’s brother, who gets tips on the races. I was supposed to see him today, but I missed him. Just my goddamn luck. But maybe I’ll get the breaks again.”
“Say, how does this horse Sugar Candy stack up in the next?” Studs asked a fellow in a talkative group.
“Whenever he travels in fast company, his name is Also-Ran,” Ma, still smoking, dryly said.
“There’s three-to-one on him, and the way I look at it, you might as well take the odds, because anyway, you never can be certain about a jump race.”
“Don’t play Sir Canafe.”
“Why?”
“Don’t, I’m telling you.”
All those handicapping fools were a card. They knew everything wrong before a race, and everything right afterward. Detaching himself from the group, he strolled over to a scratch sheet and was attracted by the name of the fifth horse on the list, Hollow Tooth. Might as well lay a buck on the nag. It might win. He was low on dough, too, these days, because of his dates with Catherine and so little coming in, and a few bucks to swell the exchequer wouldn’t hit him in the wrong spot. Might as well take the chance.
He laid a dollar on Hollow Tooth at the counter cage, and received a numbered card with the odds, two and half to win; scrawled in a comer. He stepped back from the counter, hoping the race would start. Suppose he had beginner’s luck, pyramided his winnings, cleaned up twenty-five bucks, fifty, hundred, maybe, say, two hundred. Wouldn’t that be hard to take! And he might. He wanted the race to begin, with Hollow Tooth starting him off on a real streak of luck.
The woman in blue marched to the counter with an air of desperation. He saw she was short, but all put together in just about as neat a bundle as a guy could expect to pick up. He wondered how it would be like making her? She had all the makings of a nice steady piece on the side. And, hell, if she hung out at a joint like this, she oughtn’t to be so innocent or dumb. Looked to him like the kind who said all right, daddy, if you just touched her and cracked out with a how about it, baby.
Still coming in. Easy a hundred and fifty