More guys came, and also girls, until they formed a line, and when they were done at the table they crowded up to the bar. She gave some of them envelopes, but not all. Quite a few paid her, and she’d tap the adding machine. Then she had a lull. I paid form my beer, counted ten, swallowed three times, and went over to her table. When she looked up I took off my hat and said: “How do I bet on horses?”
“... You sure you want to?”
“I think so.”
“You know it’s against the law?”
“I’ve heard it is.”
“I didn’t say it was wrong. It’s legal at the tracks, and what’s all right one place can’t be any holing outrage some place else, looks like. But you should know how it is.”
“Okay, I know.”
“Then sit down and I’ll explain.”
We talked jerky, with breaks between, and she seemed as rattled as I was. When I got camped down, though, it changed. She drew a long trembly breath and said: “It has to be done by telephone. These gentlemen, the ones making the book, cant have a mob around, so it’s all done on your word, like in an auction room, where a nod is as good as a bond, and people don’t rat on their bids. I take your name, address, and phone, and when you’re looked up you’ll get a call. They give you a number, and from then on you phone in and your name will be good for your bets.”
“My name is Miles Kearny.”
She wrote it on an envelope, with my phone and address, an apartment in southeast Washington. I took the pen from her hand, rubbed ink on my signet right, and pressed the ring on the envelope, so the little coronet, with the three tulips over it, showed nice and clear. She got some ink off my hand with her blotter, then studied the impression on the envelope. She said: “Are you a prince or something?”
“No, but it’s been in the family. And it’s one way to get my hand held. And pave the way for me to ask something.”
“Which is?”
“Are you from the West?”
“No, I’m not. I’m from Ohio. Why?”
“And you’ve never lived in Mexico?”
“No, but I love Mexican clothes.”
“Then that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“How you come to look that way and — and how I came to fall for you. I am from the West. Southern California.”
She got badly rattled again and after a long break said: “Have you got it straight now? About losses? They have to be paid.”
“I generally pay what I owe.”
There was a long, queer break then, and she seemed to have something on her mind. At last she blurted out: “And do you really want in?”
“Listen, I’m over twenty-one.”
“In’s easy. Out’s not.”
“You mean it’s habit-forming?”
“I mean, be careful who you give your name to, or your address, or phone.”
“They give theirs, don’t they?”
“They give you a number.”
“Is that number yours, too?”
“I can be reached there.”
“And who do I ask for?”
“... Ruth.”
“That all the name you got?”
“In this business, yes.”
“I want in.”
Next day, by the cold gray light of Foggy Bottom, which is what they call the State Department, you’d think that I’d come to my senses and forget her. But I thought of her all day long, and that night I was back, on the same old stool, when she came in, made a call from the booth, came out, squawked about the light, and picked up her coffee to drink it. When she saw me she took it to the table. I went over, took off my hat, and said: “I rang in before I came. My apartment house. But they said no calls came in for me.”
“It generally takes a while.”
That seemed to be all, and I left. Next night it was the same, and for some nights after that. But one night she said, “Sit down,” and then: “Until they straighten it out, why don’t you bet with me? Unless, of course, you have to wait until post time. But if you’re satisfied to pick them the night before, I could take care of it.”
“You mean, you didn’t give in my name?”
“I told you, it all takes time.”
“Why didn’t you give it in?”
“Okay, let’s bet.”
I didn’t know one horse from another, but she had a racing paper there, and I picked a horse called Fresno, because he reminded me of home and at least I could remember his name. From the weights he looked like a long shot, so I played him to win, place, and show, $2 each way. He turned out an also-ran, and the next night I kicked in with $6 more and picked another horse, still trying for openings to get going with her. That went on for some nights, I hoping to break through, she hoping I’d drop out, and both of us getting nowhere. Then one night Fresno was entered again and I played him again, across the board. Next night I put down my $6, and she sat staring at me. She said: “But Fresno won.”
“Oh. Well say. Good old Fresno.”
“He paid sixty-four eighty for two.”
I didn’t much care, to tell the truth. I didn’t want her money. But she seemed quite upset. She went on: “However, the top bookie price, on any horse that wins, is twenty to one. At that I owe you forty dollars win money, twenty-two dollars place, and fourteen dollars show, plus of course the six that you bet. That’s eighty-two in all. Mr. Kearny, I’ll pay you tomorrow. I came away before the last race was run, and I just now got the results when I called in. I’m sorry, but I don’t have the money with me, and you’ll have to wait.”
“Ruth, I told you from the first, my weakness isn’t horses. It’s you. If six bucks a night is the ante, okay, that’s how it is, and dirt cheap. But if you’ll act as a girl ought to act, quit holding out on me, what your name is and how I get in touch, I’ll quit giving an imitation of a third-rate gambler, and we’ll both quit worrying whether you pay me or not. We’ll start over, and—”
“What do you mean, act as a girl ought to act?”
“I mean go out with me.”
“On this job how can i?”
“Somebody making you hold it?”
“They might be, at that.”
“With a gun to your head, maybe?”
“They got ’em, don’t worry.”
“There’s only one thing wrong with that. Some other girl and a gun, that might be her reason. But not you. You don’t say yes to a gun, or to anybody giving you orders, or trying to. If you did, I wouldn’t be here.”
She sat looking down in her lap, and then, in a very low voice: “I don’t say I was forced. I do say, when you’re young you can be a fool. Then people can do things to you. And you might try to get back, for spite. Once you start that, you’ll be in too deep to pull out.”
“Oh, you could pill out, if you tried.”
“How, for instance?”
“Marrying me is one way.”
“Me, a pay-off girl for a gang of bookies, marry Miles Kearny, a guy with a crown on his ring and a father that owns a big business and a mother — who’s your mother, by the way?”
“My mother’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”