My car started right away and it made it on to the FDR Drive without stalling. One of the first things I was going to do when I got rich was buy a new car—probably a bright red Ferrari. Or maybe I’d have a few cars, just to mix things up.
There was no traffic so I made it to the track in about an hour. I thought about going to a diner to kill time and grab something to eat, but I didn’t have an appetite. I was too excited to eat and, besides, I remembered how I’d promised myself that my diner days were over. I’d only go to expensive restaurants to eat from now on, but I didn’t figure there were too many nice restaurants in Ozone Park, Queens, near the racetrack—especially not ones that were open at eight in the morning.
You might think that time would go by slowly, sitting in a parked car with nothing to do, but the next time I checked my watch it was eleven o’clock.
I pulled into the parking lot, paying the extra buck for preferred parking, and then I sat there for a minute, letting it all soak in. I realized how much my life had improved in the past two weeks. That day at the jai-alai fronton I was a struggling actor with no prospects, but now everything was working out. No doubt about it—Pete Logan getting into my car was probably the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Walking slowly so I wouldn’t sweat up my suit, I headed toward the entrance to the clubhouse. The old guy at the admission window didn’t even look at me as he took my three bucks. When I was a famous horse owner I knew things would be a lot different. I’d probably have a pass, go through a special entrance, and the guy at the door would say “Good morning, Mr. Russo,” and if he was lucky I’d look at him or say good morning back.
Going into the track, I felt like I was stepping into my new life. Outside was the old Tommy Russo, and I wasn’t sad to see him go.
I went to the bathroom to piss and to make sure I still looked great. A few hairs had come loose, but I slicked them back into place with some water and my little black comb, and then I went back into the clubhouse. I decided to go out to the stands and take a look at the owners’ boxes—see where I’d be sitting someday. But on my way out a tall, skinny black usher, said, “You got a pass?”
“No. I mean not yet,” I said.
“Then you can’t go out there.”
“It’s all right. I just wanted to look.”
“Sorry. You can’t go out there if you don’t got a pass.”
“But I just wanted to take a look, that’s all.”
I started to walk by him. He stood in my way.
“Those are the owners’ boxes,” he said. “They’re only for authorized personnel.”
“I’m gonna be authorized personnel. I’m claiming a horse today.”
“Sorry,” he said, “if you’re not authorized personnel you can’t go out there.”
“I just wanna go take a look,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”
I walked past him and he grabbed the back of my shoulder.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s your problem?”
Or maybe I yelled it because a security guard came running over.
“What’s going on here?” he asked. He was a little old Irish guy with gray hair and square shoulders. He reminded me of Frank.
“Ask this guy,” I said. “He just grabbed me.”
“I just told him he can’t go out there without a pass and he tried to get by me,” the usher said.
“Forget about it,” I said. “The guy’s crazy.”
“Just take it easy,” the security guard said. “I don’t want any trouble here.”
“You talking to me or him?” I said.
“You,” he said.
I walked away, shaking my head.
I spotted Pete, sitting on a bench against the wall, reading the Racing Form. At first I thought it couldn’t possibly be him. Not because he looked different, because he looked the same. He was wearing sneakers, old jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and the same beige winter jacket he’d been wearing at the jai-alai fronton. He wasn’t even dressed up as good as he was at the Chinese restaurant. Maybe I got the day screwed up—maybe we were supposed to claim the horse tomorrow or some other time. I couldn’t think of any other reason why Pete wasn’t wearing a suit.
When I walked over to him he looked up at me like he was surprised. I was probably giving him the same look.
“Look at you,” he said, “all decked out. What’s the special occasion?”
Maybe I did get the date mixed up.
“What do you mean?” I said. “I got a call from Alan the other day. We’re claiming the horse today, right?”
“If he doesn’t get scratched,” Pete said. “But I just checked the board downstairs and he’s still in. No, I meant are you doing something after the races? Going to a wedding or something?”
“No,” I said.
“Then what’s with the outfit?”
“I was gonna ask you the same question,” I said.
“What do you mean? I always dress like this to go to the track.”
“That’s what I mean,” I said.
We stared at each other for a couple of seconds.
“I get it,” Pete said. “You’re trying to be funny.”
“Do I look like I’m trying to be funny?” I said. “I don’t understand—why did you dress like that today?”
“Because I felt like it,” he said.
“Yeah, well you’re a horse owner now—you should dress like one. Is this how you’re gonna look when you’re down there in the winner’s circle, getting your picture taken? I mean come on—”
“Are you feeling all right?” Pete asked.
“Are you?”
“Maybe you should sit down—relax.”
I turned around and started to walk away. Then I stopped, realizing this wouldn’t do me any good. Pete was part of the syndicate and I had to stick with him no matter what he looked like.
I stood with my back to Pete for twenty seconds, maybe longer, then I turned back around.
“Forget about it,” I said. “It’s not important.”
“You scared me there for a second,” Pete said. “I really thought you were losing it. Come on, why don’t you sit down? Take a load off.”
I sat down on the bench next to Pete. I noticed that he was wearing cologne today, probably to cover up his B.O., but he’d put on so much of it he smelled as bad as he always did—maybe worse.
“I think I get what’s going on,” Pete said. “You think I was making fun of you. Well, I wasn’t. I think you look great in that suit and with those sunglasses on—like a movie star. I also think it’s good that you got dressed up today. It shows you’re serious about this. That’s what I wanted when I got into this thing—not just to be with guys who wanted to fuck around, for a tax write-off. I wanted to be with guys who wanted to get into the horse business to win. Come on, no hard feelings, right?”
I looked over. Pete was holding out his hand, waiting for me to shake it.
“No hard feelings,” I said. I shook his sweaty hand, but I still hated him.
“I’ll tell you what—when the horse is ours, when we come for the first time he races, I promise I’ll wear a suit too. How’s that?”
“Whatever,” I said.
I was looking away again, hoping Pete would go back to reading his Form and forget about me.
“By the way, I wanted to ask you, where did you get those shoes?”
“Macy’s,” I said.
“Macy’s?” He said. “You should’ve come by my store, I would’ve gotten you those shoes for a quarter of the price. Eh, it doesn’t matter. Next time.”