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my problem.”
    “I know. I was just wondering if you had some advice for me.”
    “Advice? My advice is don’t put in action for guys who can’t pay. That’s my advice.”
    Mickey was upset that Artie wasn’t helping him, but he understood too. Artie wasn’t a bookie himself; he was just a runner for Nick. Mickey couldn’t expect him to put his job on the line.
    “What race is going off here?” Mickey asked.
    “The third.”
    “Like anything?”
    “You’re kiddin’ me? You’re in the hole for over a g, and you’re gonna bet?”
    “I’m not in the hole, Angelo is.”
    “Same difference.”
    “I’m just gonna throw away a few bucks. Who do you like?”
    “The six, maybe the four. It’s the fucking Meadowlands. It’s like spinning a roulette wheel. Put a blindfold on and pin the tail on the fucking donkey.”
    “I’m gonna go put something in,” Mickey said.
    Mickey went up to the counter and played a ten-dollar exacta six-four, and played a four-six exacta for five dollars. Max wrote down Mickey’s bets on a little piece of paper then gave Mickey the original and kept the carbon. In the back of his mind, Mickey was hoping he could win back Angelo’s money.
    When Mickey returned to the table, Artie said, “This race is a crap shoot. I think I’ll just sit it out.”
    “Let me explain what’s going on,” Mickey said, almost whispering. “See, this guy Angelo—he’s connected.”
    “So?”
    “So that’s why I put in the action for him.”
    “You’re talkin’ to a brick wall,” Artie said. “I asked you on the phone about this guy, and you vouched for him.”
    “I know, it’s my fault,” Mickey said. “But what am I supposed to do?”
    “Am I talking to myself here? If you want to close your account, I’ll close your account. We can make up a payment plan, and when the account is paid off, you can start from scratch again.”
    “You think I should pay it off?”
    “You said you got money in the bank, right?”
    “That’s my life savings so I can go to college next year. There’s no way in hell I’m using that to pay off some stupid bets.”
    An old guy across the table glared at Mickey over a torn-out racing page from the Daily News.
    “Keep your voice down—Jesus,” Artie said. “You sound like my fucking wife for Chrissakes.”
    “Sorry,” Mickey said.
    “What do you want me to tell you?” Artie said.
    Mickey glanced at the TV and saw the race had started. The four was on the lead—the six was on the rail, in behind horses. Mickey continued to watch the race as he said, “I’m not stupid, Artie. I don’t just go around putting in action for guys I don’t know. But this guy, Angelo, asked me to make the bets, and I couldn’t say no to him.”
    “All the more reason why you should make a payment plan or just pay it out of your own pocket and start saving again,” Artie said. “You asked for my advice and I gave it to you. Chalk it up to experience. What do you got here?”
    “Four-six.”
    “Rip up your ticket. The six is dead as Kelso’s nuts.”
    Mickey looked up and saw that the six horse was backing out of the picture.
    “Hey, don’t think I don’t wanna help you out,” Artie said. “Believe me, if there was anything I could do for you, I would, but Nick calls all the shots. Meanwhile, I’m up shit’s creek with my own problems. I can’t catch a cold at the races since—I don’t remember the last time I cashed a fuckin’ ticket. I got my own debts and bills. I’d be better off sitting on the couch watching TV with my fuckin’ wife, but like an idiot I come here every night. How’s your father by the way?”
    “All right,” Mickey said.
    “He can’t make it out to the track no more, huh?”
    “Nah, those days are over,” Mickey said. The race at the Meadowlands had ended. The four and six had finished last and next to last.
    “I got a friend whose father had that Alzheimer’s shit,” Artie said. “It’s hard. I give you a lot