Read Murder at the Racetrack for Free Online

pull up. He’s over to the driver,
     palms him a wad, says,
    “Take the evening off, buddy.”
    Lenny’s a small guy, comes up to maybe my shoulder, but built like the proverbial shithouse and ferocious with it. He’s from
     Boston but came to New York as his old lady was from the Bronx. Used to box, welterweight, till some spade stopped his clock.
     His nose is scrunched to the right, gives him an almost comical appearance, but you don’t get too many guys laughing about
     it, least not twice. He has a hair-trigger temper. Made him one ballsy cop but brought him down—that and the mob stuff. He
     was wearing an Armani suit, not a rip-off but the real deal; you can always tell. The way it hangs? like attitude.
    I get out of the cab and he goes,
    “Come here, you big lug.”
    I’m a tall guy, getting a little stooped but can still measure up, least where it matters. He shoots his cuff and I see the
     Rolex… shining against his Miami tan, “Diamonds and Rust.”
    He gives me a tight hug. I’m not real comfortable with that shit but what the hell, no one had touched me in a while.
    A hooker I had in Bed Stuy, whining,
    “Don’t touch the hair and no kissing.”
    Real affectionate broad.
    I’m banging away, trying to get it over, get off, and she asked,
    “You near done?”
    Just like my old lady, if a little better looking, and at least she took the cash up front, not the daily bleeding me useless.
    Lenny goes,
    “We gonna stay on the curb all evening? Get your sorry ass in here.” Christ, what a pad, massive and with white leather furniture,
     paintings on the wall. I don’t know art from shinola but they had little lights above them, so I figure they were expensive.
     There’s a young girl on the couch, dressed in bra and panties, a real beaut, her head nodding like the junkies on Seventh.
    Lenny said,
    “Say hello to Angie. She’s a little outta it but she bangs like a trooper.”
    Lenny always had a mouth on him. He shouts,
    “Yo, babe, get us some cold ones and bring the bottle of Grey Goose.”
    Took her a time, but eventually we got behind some serious drinks and Lenny said,
    “The fuck you standing for? Take the weight off, get your ass on that couch, chill buddy.”
    I had on a Goodwill sports jacket, and truth to tell, I was a little ashamed of it. Got it off with more than a bit of relief
     and Lenny asked,
    “You’re not packing?”
    A cop without his piece is like a pimp without rock. I had no answer to that, so chugged my vodka and that shit, it goes down,
     real smooth. Lenny fills it right up, says,
    “No prob, get you fixed up.”
    He goes out of the room and the girl looks at me, her eyes drooping, asks,
    “You a cop?”
    I take my time, she’s not going to remember in five minutes anyway, then I said,
    “Used to be.”
    She stared at me, then,
    “Lenny says you’re a compulsive gambler.”
    Lenny and his mouth. I feel regret that I no longer carry the shield. The regret is more than I expected and I swear I feel
     my eyes tearing up. Must have been that Grey Goose; sneaks up on you.
    Lenny comes back, hands me a Glock, says,
    “Lock ’n’ load, bro.”
    It’s like a toy in my big hand. Light as hope. Dull sheen that catches the light.
    The girl asks,
    “What’s with you guys and guns?”
    Lenny says, real quiet,
    “Shut up, bitch.”
    The steel in his voice, no fucking around with that.
    He smiles then, swallows a huge dollop of his drink, the ice clinking against his teeth, freshly capped and gleaming, like
     a movie star. Set you back three grand. I know; I inquired.
    He said,
    “October twenty-seventh.”
    The booze has muddled my head and I don’t know what he means, so I go,
    “Dunno what you mean.”
    He’s incredulous, then,
    “The Sox, man, we became world champions.”
    He’s fucking with me, big time. I’ve been a Yankee fan all my life—how could I not?—and I’d almost forgotten how Lenny liked
     to stick it to people. The Glock is still in my hand