Well, I was back in my office.
Time to go to work. I picked up the phone and touch-keyed into my bookie.
“Tony’s Pizza Take Out,” he answered, “at your service.”
I gave him my code name.
“This is Mr. Slow Death.”
“Belane,” he said, “you’re into me for $475, I can’t take your action. You’ve got to clean the slate first.”
“I’ve got a 25 buck bet, that will make half-a-string. If I lose I’ll cough it all up, my mother’s honor.”
“Belane, your mother is into me for $230.”
“Yeah? And your mother’s got warts on her ass!”
“What? Listen, Belane, you been…?”
“No, no. It was another guy. He told me.”
“O.k., then.”
“All right, I want $25 to win on Burnt Butterfly in the 6th.”
“All right, you’re covered. And good luck. Yours seems to be running out.”
I hung up. Son-of-a-bitch, a man was born to struggle for each inch of ground. Born to struggle, born to die.
I thought about that. And thought about that.
Then I leaned back in my chair, took a good drag on my cigarette and blew an almost perfect smoke ring.