7

 

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.