Richard Lange - Sweet Nothing

“I like number two,” Lupe says, wiping ketchup off Jesse’s chin with a napkin. “He’s pretty.”

Toe the Line is the horse’s name, three to one.

“You know how to pick ’em,” I tell her. “He’s one of the favorites.”

She reaches into her purse and pulls out two dollars. “I want to bet on him.”

I wave the money away. “My treat.”

“Nope,” she says, thrusting the bills at me. “That’s bad luck.”

Her smile could stop a war. I take the two bucks and turn to leave. The man I was watching before is gone. If he went light, I’d planned to go with the four horse; dark, the nine. Now I’ll have to bet both.

WHEN I GET back from the window with our tickets and a box of popcorn for Jesse, Paul is sitting in the row behind us, leaning forward to talk to Lupe. Something takes hold of my guts and squeezes.

“Here he is,” Paul says as I approach. “The man himself.”

“Watch your purse around this one,” I say to Lupe.

She laughs. Paul looks hurt, then angry.

“She was asking how we met,” he says.

Danny Boy brought us together. Gave us the keys to the back door of his brother’s house and told us to trash the place, paid us each a hundred bucks. Those were not good times.

“Who can remember?” I say. A warning.

Paul picks up on it. “I can’t,” he says. “I sure can’t.”

I give Lupe her ticket, and the kid tries to grab it out of her hand. She tells him to sit still. We make small talk as the horses walk to the starting gate. All I can think of is the pistol in Paul’s waistband. It’s like there’s a snake coiled under Lupe’s seat where she can’t see it, and I’m ignoring it so as not to alarm her, all the while terrified that the damn thing is going to strike. Paul’s talking about Hawaii, telling Lupe how great it is there: Oh, the sand. Oh, the water. Oh, the food. He’s never been to Hawaii; he’s never even been to San Diego.

A stiff breeze sweeps up a bunch of losing tickets and whips them around the legs of the Mexicans lining the fence next to the track. The gates swing open, and the horses are off. I’m not normally a stander or a shouter, but Lupe, you know, and the kid, that’s part of the fun for them. So as the pack comes into the stretch, I’m on my feet with everybody else, even though my picks are already out of the money.

“I won!” Lupe yells as the horses cross the finish line.

“We won!” Jesse yells.

Lupe hugs him, hugs me, hugs Paul. When things settle down, Paul starts pumping her for info: where she lives, where she works, what she drives. I interrupt with “So, who do you like in the next race?”

“Paul said Kentucky Straight looks good,” Lupe replies.

I glance at my program. Thirty-five to one. That’s Paul right there: If he can’t win, he doesn’t want anyone else to. Fucker lives his whole life that way.

“It’s a long shot,” I say.

“What’s that mean?” Lupe asks.

“It means you bet a little to win a lot,” Paul says.

“Good, ’cause a little is all I got.”

I’m not going to argue. We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves. And what’s two bucks? Paul, though, has got to go.

“Come on,” I say to him. “I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Just bring it to me,” he says.

“Nah, come with me. I want to talk to you about something.”

He gets up reluctantly, knowing he won’t be back, kisses Lupe’s hand and bumps fists with Jesse.

As soon as we’re out of their sight, I give him a shove. He stumbles and almost goes down. The maniac has a gun, and I push him. I’m a genius; I truly am.

“I don’t appreciate your jokes,” I say.

“So what?” he says. “She’s not that cute. In fact, her ass is gigantic.”

I lurch toward him, and he backs off.

“Get going,” I say, keeping an eye on his hands.

“You know what?” he says. “I’m done with you.” Then he turns and, thank God, walks away.

I DECIDE TO visit Willy and Leon in the clubhouse, see what horses they like. You’re supposed to have a stamp to get in from the grandstand, showing you paid extra. I don’t, but the woman guarding the entrance is too busy texting to look up when I wave my hand under the black light and hurry past her.

Willy and Leon are legends, twin brothers who worked as pari-mutuel clerks, taking bets here and at Hollywood Park for thirty years before retiring. They still show up every day, out of habit, know all the jockeys, all the owners, all the trainers, and they’re usually good for a tip.

I find them in their usual spot, a booth in a quiet corner of the clubhouse snack bar beneath a bank of monitors showing races from all over the country. Five or six other regulars sit with them, and the table is covered with dope sheets, marked-up Form s, and Styrofoam coffee cups. The men all wear clothes from twenty, thirty, even forty years ago. They never venture outside to watch a race live, and they communicate with one another mostly in grunts and whispers. Their days are spent scribbling arcane symbols on their programs or staring up at the screens overhead, tongues clenched between their teeth.

At my hello, Willy taps Leon, who takes off his reading glasses and glances around, confused, before spotting me. The brothers are both five feet tall and just about as wide, with big round heads and bulging eyes, and they both comb their graying hair to the same side. The only way anyone can tell them apart is that the lobe of Willy’s left ear is missing, sliced off in a gang fight when he was a kid.

“Hey, buddy boy,” Willy says. “Keeping out of trouble?”

“You know me,” I reply.

“That’s why he’s asking,” Leon says, and he and Willy jiggle with silent laughter. Rumor has it that they’ve won and lost millions over the years, that they once shared a woman who broke both their hearts, and that they still sleep in their childhood bedroom at their mother’s house.

“I need a winner,” I say.

“And you came to them?” one of the other men at the table says with a snort. “They’re in so deep, Obama’s gonna bail them out.”

Everybody gets a kick out of this, one guy laughing so hard he goes into a coughing fit.

“Seriously,” Willy says. “It’s nothing but nags today.”

“Yeah, keep your money,” Leon adds.

“Come on,” I say. “You guys have something.”

They lock eyes for a few seconds, then Willy runs a fat finger down the chicken scratches he’s made on a memo pad.

“The five horse in the sixth might come alive,” he finally says.

“Might,” Leon emphasizes.

Willy announces that he needs to use the can. He’s sitting in the center of the booth, which means the guys to one side or the other will have to slide out and stand up, but neither group wants to move. I leave them bickering about it and go to a window, where I cash in Lupe’s ticket for eight dollars and put two back on Kentucky Straight.

For my bet, I figure it’s been three races now since a favorite has come in, so it’s got to happen this time. I mean to lay ten on the horse, but out of habit say twenty and decide not to correct it. I don’t want to get in the way of anything.

“COME ON, BABY, come on!” Lupe shouts, but it’s no use. Kentucky Straight runs last, and the favorite ends up third. So we’re both losers.

“Made for each other,” I say to Lupe.

“I’m no loser,” she replies.

“It was a joke,” I say.

We sit poring over the prospects for the next race when we should be getting to know each other better. This was a horrible place to take her on a first date. I see that now. I’m under too much stress here. Now that I’m down, all I can think about is ways to get back up. And Lupe, look at her, jiggling her leg, twisting her hair, squinting at her program like someone taking a test. The zoo would have been better, something fun for the kid. He’s bored to death here, nothing to do but play with his doll, make it jump in the air and kick his mother’s arm.