Read Murder at the Racetrack for Free Online Page B

telling me what to do…
Loo-tenant?
Memo to asshole: You don’t get to give orders anymore, you take ’em, got that?”
    I’ve got it.
    The girl is weeping and one thing I could never take is women weeping. Reminds me of my little girls, bawling as their mother
     dragged them out the door and out of my life. Her final words:
    “Your father is only interested in horses.”
    And my youngest, said,
    “I like Black Beauty.”
    Words to kill you. Time was I’d read that to her at bedtime but got sucked into the
Racing Post
instead.
    Lenny is right in my face, his spittle on my cheek, like acid. I bite down, tell myself,
    “Chill, buddy, you need this gig, let it burn, slow, and keep it on simmer.”
    When he sees I’m not going to muscle, he spins on the girl and screams,
    “Take that fucking whining cunt off my stereo.”
    Calling Bowie that, I add it to the shopping list.
    His ride is, of course, a Chevy and I try not to think about the amount of booze and chemicals in his blood, but the rage
     has cleansed him and he’s Mr. Affability. We get to Brooklyn, him extolling the Sox the whole trip and he pulls up, looks
     around at the hood, says,
    “Man, you’re almost in Bed Stuy.”
    Then he gives me a good-natured punch on the shoulder, asks,
    “We cool, buddy?”
    I give him the yard about letting off steam, and we both act like it’s true. He aims a feint blow at my chin, says,
    “Try and stay out of the OTB. In a little while, you can go to the track in style. A week from Friday, come to my place, we’ll
     go do our work and after, we’ll party hard. Sound good? We do it right, you can buy your own horse.”
    I agree it sounds great.
    In my rathole, I pour a large tumbler of the Stoli, knock a hole in the wall with my fist and throw Baez out the window.
    Something had to give, right?
    Friday evening, he’s wearing a long raincoat and packing a Mossberg in the right cutaway pocket. I ask,
    “Shotgun? You expecting up close and personal?”
    He’s also putting a Nine in his left, says,
    “For show, bro, get them focused.”
    I have the Glock. In the movies, you see them stick it in the waist of their pants, at the back.
    Fuck that.
    I have it in the new suede jacket, my finger lightly caressing the trigger.
    We drive to the East Village, up a flight of stairs and I notice Lenny has a run of sweat on his forehead. He says,
    “Follow my lead.”
    Knocks on a door and I hear a deadbolt drawn, a guy in his early thirties opens, goes,
    “Lenny, hey.”
    And we’re in, there’s a guy on the couch, watching
The Wire,
box of pizza on the table, Bud longnecks, riding point. He has a sweatshirt with the logo JIMMY’S GYM. And the guy sees me, a look of recognition in his eyes. Lenny has the Mossberg out, blows the first guy’s face off and pumps
     the second load into the guy on the couch, the logo obliterated.
    The sound is deafening and the smell of cordite is overpowering, Lenny goes,
    “Move. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
    We don’t speak a single word on the ride back to the Island, except for Lenny asking,
    “You don’t get that rush from horses, am I right?”
    He didn’t expect a reply and I didn’t have one.
    We go into the apartment and Lenny shucks off his jacket. He’s running on pure adrenaline and me, I’m running on empty.
    I’m sitting on the couch, glass of Beam in my hand and Lenny is pacing, mania blowing off him and he stops, asks,
    “Gone a little quiet there, buddy?”
    I put my glass down, say,
    “Jimmy’s Gym.”
    He’s staring at me, his eyes wild, snaps,
    “So?”
    I take my sweet time, get it right, go,
    “Guy’s from the eighty-fifth, they practically own that place and that kid on the couch, I knew him. Ted Brennan’s eldest.”
    He’s reaching in his coat and asks,
    “You got a point or you going to sit there, swilling my hooch.”
    “Cops. Those guys were on the job.”
    His Nine is in his hand and he sighs,
    “Horse players, the bottom feeders, you’re