Read Murder at the Racetrack for Free Online Page A

and for one glorious moment I considered shooting the fucker.
    Wish I had.
    He’s not finished.
    “You guys choked—am I right?—got your ass handed to you.”
    Like I said, I should have shot him.
    He busted my chops some more, making a few comments about slow horses and slower ex-cops, then suddenly jumps up, disappears
     into the bedroom, returns with a suede jacket, still in its plastic, asked,
    “You go an XL, right? Try this. That piece of crap you got looks like you got it in Goodwill. No offense, buddy, this will
     make you look like a player. Next time you hit the ponies, you’ll at least look the part.”
    I wanted to tell him to shove it, but pride had long ago taken a walk. The jacket fits snugly and he sits down, a smirk in
     place, and I wondered,
    “Did I ever like this prick?”
    He puts down a line of snow, takes a deep snort, says as he lays down some more,
    “Get on the other side of this, bro.”
    What the hell, I do a few and feel the icy drip down the back of my throat and the instant clear thinking in my brain, like
     it’s been washed in intelligence. Everything is hunky-dory and if I’d a copy of a form sheet, I’d have picked me some sure
     winners, I know it.
    He smiles, says,
    “See, you got to lighten up, pal.”
    Light? I’m floating, on clouds of ease.
    I need music and hop up, ask,
    “You got any music?”
    Dumb, huh?
    He’s got Sinatra and… Sinatra. Sees me hesitate and says,
    “There’s some other crap over near the wall, the broad picked it up.”
    I flip through them, lots of names that mean nothing to me,
The Killers, The Streets, Frantz Ferdinand,
then at the very end,
Bowie’s Greatest Hits.
I grab that, like a prayer, and put it on, the opening of “Aladdin Sane” begins, Lenny snorts,
    “That English faggot?”
    The coke had mellowed me way low so I let that slide.
    Lenny sits forward, wiping at a dribble from his nose, says,
    “Time to talk business, buddy.”
    No free lunch, especially with cops.
    His voice changes. He’s got the Boston twang in place, sounding like one of the goddamn Kennedys, all fake sincerity, says,
    “You want to get behind some serious change, am I right?”
    I want to go,
    “Take a wild fucking guess.”
    But just nod, shaking hands with the devil, he shakes… a cigarette loose from a pack of Marlboro Lights, and I nearly smile.
     He’s shoving every substance known up his nose and smoking
Lights?
    He cranks a battered Zippo, the flame making his eyes look demented. He drags deep, then,
    “We got us a sweet deal. Two lowlifes, they owe my employers a lot of green and they ain’t coming up with it. They need a
     lesson in manners, nothing too major, no biblical stuff, but a wake-up call, you following me?”
    Jesus, how complicated is it?
    I ask,
    “And you need me, why?”
    He emits a short laugh, more like a bark, says,
    “I need backup, you think I’m gonna trust some guinea in a suit to have my rear and if I remember, you were pretty damn good
     at shakedown before you got all fucked with that racing gig.”
    Not something I like to recall.
    The gig smells to high heaven but what’s my alternative? Joan Baez, and the barrel of a piece I’m not sure even works, so
     I agree.
    Hearing Bowie has made me want things I used to want and haven’t been able to get for a long time, like respect.
    Am I blaming Ziggy?… duh… yeah.
    Lenny says,
    “C’mon, buddy, I’ll drive you back to Brooklyn.”
    He’s about to finish the remnants of his drink when the girl comes out of the bathroom. She’s obviously been doing some dope,
     or rather more of it, and she staggers, knocks into Lenny, his drink spilling on the Armani suit and he loses it, big time,
     goes,
    “The fuck you doing?”
    Begins to lay into her, slapping her face with a concentration that is pure, unadulterated hate
    One
    Two
    Three
    Slap.
    And I grab his arm, say,
    “Enough.”
    Her face is already bruising, he spins, out of control, spits at me,
    “You’re