Past Performances

By WL Racherbaumer

Bill Shannon never wanted to do anything but play the horses ever since his grandfather took him to the race track in 1955. It was a family tradition. When his grandfather died, he abandoned thoughts of glory and slid into the mainstream of American existence, married and went to California. He taught school. He played golf. Life was good. Then his wife died and everything changed. He sold their possessions. Went back home to Chicago. Wandered Arlington Park trying to recapture his youth and met an ex-Chicago cop named Ranger. He had a checkered past he never talked about but wore on his sleeve.

Then someone broke into a fellow horseplayer and psychologically challenged computer geek's apartment and put him a coma. Ranger vowed to find the assailant. Shannon balked. He had disavowed violence. Too many bad memories. They gave him the shakes. He changed his mind when his childhood nemesis reappeared and sent him pell-mell into a web of Chicago corruption and blackmail where he discovered a part of himself he thought long buried.

First in the series
Proofed 04-2014

• Language: English
• Publisher: WL Racherbaumer
• Release date: Oct 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311748522

WL Racherbaumer

Born Elmhurst, IllinoisWL Racherbaumer began writing late in life.While in his twenties, he was a musician and a journalist in the U.S.Navy. Returning to school, he earned a degree in communication after which he was an editor for a music magazine and a disc jockey. He then went into retail, which he found wanting, leading him to take a job as a reading specialist. Two decades later, he retired as a post-secondary Educational Psychologist. The one constant throughout his diverse employment was his passion for the sport of horse racing. It began in 1955 when he witnessed Nashua beat Swaps at Washington Park in Chicago. Those sixty years of experience are the mortar that built the foundation for his narrative.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I awoke at twilight when the predawn chill has settled and the air smells green and wet. I thought I could get lucky and experience that moment of peace beyond silence. It occurs just before the sun breaks the horizon and ignites the wind. I waited and listened. I heard rustling. It was coming from the tree overhanging the balcony. I rolled over and saw her. She froze in mid-step and threw her nose in the air. She sensed it too. I hold my breath as the first rays of sunlight pierce the window. It's over. She bounded down and back up into my bed. I rolled onto my back, waiting for her lightness of being and absolute certainty of acceptance. I want to be a cat the next go round. She stretches out on my stomach and purrs. She’s home and I’m more comforted by that fact than she. I stroke her flank, which prompted her to stand on my chest and yawn in my face. I scratch her chin. She leans into it. With her morning snuggle complete, she washes her face and heads for her empty bowl. She’ll wait there until our morning skit is complete.

Roxy came into my life exactly two weeks after I moved back to Chicago. She appeared as if out of a dream and sat on my balcony rail. We watched each other for a week until I decided to introduce myself. She bolted the second I stepped out the sliding door. When she returned the next morning, I tried a different tack and left the door open while I took a shower. When I finished, she was sitting like a Sphinx right outside the bathroom door. She’s been with me ever since.

Mondays are usually my day to sleep in, but today I have promises to keep. I pushed myself out of bed and padded across the hardwood floor to the bathroom. As I waited for the prostate to let go, I gazed into the mirror. I hate mirrors. Clocks too. One reminds me of how much time I’ve wasted and the other how little I have left.

I ran the water warm, dug out the Sandman’s parting gifts and squinted at the new liver spot. I swear my hairline has receded a half inch overnight. I move in closer and focus in on the proof that I’m hurtling toward Medicare. I took a pass on stepping on the bathroom scale. Instead, I opted for patting my gut and half-heartedly vowing to cut back on the pasta.

The shadows on the living room rug told me there wasn’t enough time for my usual morning yoga; a holdover from my California daze, when I noticed the phone machine blinking. I pressed play and slid an English muffin into the toaster as Robo chick said I had two messages. That's was two more than usual. Beep.

Hi Dad. Just a reminder to bring the photo album. The kids can’t wait to see you. Bye.

That's my daughter’s third reminder. She’s paranoid I’ll forget. Can’t blame her. Annie is her mother’s daughter and worries about...No. Make that abhors the company I keep.

Beep

Six. There’s a B-O-D in the fifth at Saratoga. The Softies won’t have this one. Rain is forecast. I’ll be at the Starting Gate.

Ranger’s vernacular always brings a smile to my face. A B-O-D is a bet of the day and the Softies the ex-cop, ex-marine, ex-everything is referring to are the acolytes of software engineers who think all you have to do is assign a number to a racehorse in order to win. Au contraire mon frère. The nickname came to him the first time we pooled our money and hit the pick six. He called it an omen. I kinda like it. It makes me feel like I'm part of the fraternity of horseplayers. It’s also an albatross. You see, I'm on a quest to hit the Breeder’s Cup Pick Six with a two-dollar ticket. That's six singles. I call it the Perfect Six. Yeah. I know. Impossible. I should have kept it a secret.

I spread peanut butter on the muffin and sliced a banana onto some Cheerios then cleared a spot at my desk. I took a bite of muffin and opened the form to the fifth at Saratoga. It didn't take long before Roxy begins her not so subtle dance around and through my legs. I had forgotten to feed her and she won’t stop until I do. I grabbed a can from the cupboard and locked it into the electric can opener. The whirring sound made her salivate. Pavlov's cat. She begins to growl aggressively and nearly takes my handoff when I set down her fishy smelling glop. I sipped coffee and watched her gluttony awhile until my daughter’s reminder played in my head and the face of my wife followed. My right hand began to shake. I set the coffee down and headed for the sofa. I grabbed the quivering paw with the other and tried to will it to stop. It never works. Heat surged into my face. I began to sweat. I felt as helpless as the little Dutch boy. I cradled the prayer beads around my neck, closed my eyes and began to chant.

abyapajjha hontu

anigha hontu

Nauseous, I sucked my tongue.

abyapajjha hontu

anigha hontu

I thumbed the beads and counted. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Breathe.

A wave crashed over me and the undertow sucked all the air from my lungs. I was drowning. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven…

I pursed my lips and drew in tiny bits of air. Then my shoulders released. My neck followed. The terror receded. I felt Roxy rub up against my leg. I glanced at the top of the refrigerator and saw the orange prescription bottle. It screamed at me. I’m supposed to take one every morning. I hate drugs. Doc says its denial. I stroke Roxy.

It's okay Rox. I'm cool.

She isn't convinced.

I took a shower and dressed under the watchful eye of Winnie hugging me on a big rock overlooking Big Sur. I turned the photo face down and directed my thoughts to my upcoming trip to Annie’s. A happier Winnie popped into my head. She loved road trips. We spent every free moment exploring the coast of California. Her old Honda sits in my assigned parking space as a memorial. I'm not big on driving. I tell myself I keep it for emergencies, but secretly pray not to become a victim of the past.

I slipped into my favorite pair of Levi’s. You know the kind. The ones worn soft from years of experience. I live for simple pleasures these days. A sweatshirt and a pair of Nikes complete the ensemble. I have to laugh. I still dress like a teenager, except my crotch doesn’t hang below my knees. How the hell kids think it’s cool to look as if you buy your clothes from the Salvation Army is beyond me? It’s one thing to live on the mean streets of Oakland but Lake Forest?

Yo, yo, yo… my ass.

I had enough time to watch replays, so I rewound the tape and opened a new composition notebook. I have hundreds of them. No Softie would ever take notes. Hate to admit it, but I can remember when past performances were eight race lines. There were no Beyers, no Tomlinsons, no trainer or jockey stats, no replays. To have any kind of edge back then, you had to go to the track. Yeah. I know. I’m old.

I retrieved the other half of the muffin and the bowl of cereal and hit play. I ate and watched the ten races from Saratoga. It ended with a New York bred winning the nightcap and paying $37.40. Now that’s a getaway. I reset the VCR and took in a deep breath.

abyapajjha hontu

anigha hontu

Roxy took advantage and jumped into my open lap.

Sorry girl. I gotta go, I said and stood.

She bounced down and frowned. I popped a couple of vitamins, wound my grandfather’s gold watch, and did my usual self-frisking at the door. ID...check. Keys...check. Cash…oops. I looked in the zippered pocket of the backpack. Nope. I moved to my nineteenth century oak desk and adjusted the winning ticket on Nashua stuck in the cheap brass picture frame. The photo was of my grandfather and me standing outside the paddock at Washington Park. I rifled through the drawers. Nada. I wagged an accusatory finger at Gramps.

This is all your fault.

I walked back to the bedroom and checked my change drawer in the dresser. Zipola. I sat on my bed and racked my memory. I took in another deep breath (I take a lot of them these days). I heard Roxy’s tags jangle. It came from inside my closet. I looked in and saw her settle on my pile of dirty clothes, rolling on her back like a dog. I pulled the pants out from under her.

Have some class girl, I scolded. She scampered away.

I wadded up the pants and was about to toss them back when I felt a bulge in the front pocket. There it was. My modest roll of hundreds. I shook my head and slipped it into my jeans. Roxy was waiting for an apology at the door.

Sorry girl.

I locked up and then headed for the door of my only friend in the entire complex. I rapped and a sweet, modulated voice sang out.

Just a minute.

I heard her flip flop to the door. I flashed a peace sign at the peephole. A beat later, the door opened and Theodora Jackson stood resplendently wrapped in a red silk robe. She offered me a c-note. We have this ongoing arrangement. If I have a solid play at the track, I’m to stop by.

I said, Not today T.

She frowned and stuffed the hundred in her robe.

Whatcha mean not today?

The woman is college educated, but loves using her best Ebonics on me.

I need a favor.

She propped a hand on her hip.

Don’t you always.

I’m going to visit the grand kids in a couple days and I was wondering if you would look after Roxy.

She lifted an eyebrow and posed.

What’s in it for me?

Her deep brown eyes were full of mischief. I gazed at her wet, tight, black curls glistening off her mocha latte face smooth as a river rock. She noticed and flashed a one-sided smile.

Well?

How ‘bout dinner at Ferdinand’s?

She tilted her head.

Okay, but not this Friday. Ty is takin’ me to the opera.

Wow. That was easy.

Ex…cuuuse me.

I threw my hands up in surrender.

I didn’t mean you were easy. Let’s go tonight.

She smiled her killer smile.

I’ll make the reservations.

As she closed her door, she offered me a good look at her ample cleavage. I blew out some air. In my younger days, I would have jumped her where she stood. I like to think I’m more evolved now.

Both of us moved into this upscale, northwest suburban condominium complex on the same day. We were slow in making connection, but I eventually got the story of her life. It came in stages. There was the young, angry black stage. The Kunta Kinta stage. The men are pigs stage. The empowerment stage. The diet and health stage. The power lunch stage. The I’ve got more money than God, but I ain’t happy stage. And finally, I’m at peace with myself stage. It was the last one that made our meeting possible. Timing is everything. I haven’t been as forthcoming about my life.

I hit the street and the smell of last night’s rain enlivened my step. I reached the bus stop and the scent of diesel reminded me of why I don't drive. It’s just wrong to poke holes in mother earth and suck her dry for convenience. That's me. Bill Shannon - Tree Hugger. I boarded the next bus and rode to town with four other passengers. When I got off, I stepped into my childhood.

A colleague of mine told me when I retired I had an opportunity to reinvent myself. I took it wrong. I was in a bad place. I thought he meant I should. Not matter. He was wrong. I didn’t come back to the place where I rode my first bike and got my first kiss to reinvent anything. I came for a mulligan.

By the waters gently flowing, Illinois, Illinois.

After fifty years, the town of Crystal Lake has been transformed. The woods I used to play hide and seek and bicycle tag are gone. Bulldozed and turned into apartments. The soybean fields where I caught butterflies were paved over. The once shady avenues have been turned into four lane stop and go traffic. Thankfully, the train depot remained untouched. It was an unexpected and welcomed anachronism. The local politicians want to renovate it. Nice euphemism. What they really mean is level it to the ground. I hope they never get the votes. Thomas Wolfe be damned.

Then, as now, the train depot personified freedom. It looks much smaller, but it still fills me with hope and possibility. The four, polished, hard wooden benches and the barred ticket window were as I remembered it. The wooden floors still creaked and your footfalls still echoed as you walked through rays of sunlight dancing with dust motes. I found an empty bench and watched a wizen, balding man lean on a rubber toed wooden cane. A silver-haired munchkin of a woman sat next to him, hands in her lap. She was pretending to listen to his droning complaint. A kid with spiked blue hair and wearing ear and nose adornments leaned against a window. He was tuned into an IPod. Then two teenaged girls in Goth garb burst through the door and joined him. They were clucking like hens. The depot suddenly felt crowded, so I crossed the outbound rails and waited for the noon race train. It arrived at 12:10.

Chapter 2

As the call to post trumpeted, I settled into our usual spot.

You’re late, grumped Ranger.

And you’re ugly, I retorted.

He harrumphed and I asked if he wanted coffee.

Black, two sugars.

After fetching our coffees, I began working the feature in New York while Ranger busied himself with an Arlington double. We paused to watch the first race at Saratoga and agreed it looked back. That pretty much ended any chance of me playing a Pick 6 there. I’m by disposition a speed player and will only attempt a 6 when the track is front and I have three, solid singles. The carry-over was tempting though.

Is your B-O-D still in play?

Ranger smirked. Maybe.

Yo. Ranger.

I turned to put a face to the greeting and saw a man shaped like a teardrop waddled toward us. We have never met, but I've seen him around. He’s hard to miss. He must weigh close to 400 pounds, but that's not his most pronounced feature. That distinction goes to his voice. It’s so high pitched you expected a comic strip balloon to appear over his head. Ranger stood and headed him off before he entered our space.

How’s it goin’ Sweat?

He screwed up his face. I nearly had 'em man. I was this close, he said, pinching a meaty thumb and index finger together.

Ranger turned to me and rolled his eyes. I rested my head on an open hand and hid behind it.

I was leading the tournament. Top of the charts after three mandatories and still had five bullets. I was counting the money.

Big mistake, Ranger said sagely.

I know. Right? Anyway, that’s when it happened.

He pulled at his collar and looked up at the ceiling.

Man. Why don’t they crank up the air-co in here?

The man Ranger called Sweat was doing just that. It rolled down the side of his face and glistened on his upper lip like Dick Nixon. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an extra-large blue polka dotted handkerchief and wiped his face.

Then, Bang! Five consecutive long shots come in. Do ya believe it? Five fuckin’ long ones.

He held up five, sausage fingers to emphasize the point.

A dozen guys hit the max. So, now I’m twenty-third and gotta use the rest of my bullets on long shots. Naturally, the horses I liked before, win. Made me want to puke. Instead of fifteen dimes, I get a measly couple hundred. It’s a fuckin’ conspiracy. Ya know?

Ranger nodded sympathetically.

That's rough man. You’ll get‘em next time.

Yeah. Right. Next time.

Sweat stood there with his hands in his pockets contemplating his future for thirty awkward seconds.

Okay Range. I'll see ya later, he said, giving me a fleeting glance.

I watched him waddle off to sing his lament somewhere else. Sweat, like hundreds of others, has joined the ranks of the contestant. Nevada race books have been holding in house tournaments since the eighties, but then the NTRA created a big money national handicapping contest and it snowballed. Now every track in the country has at least one qualifying event. When Ranger settled back into his chair, I asked him why he hadn't invited him to join us.

There isn't a chair or a table big enough for that moose. Besides, I didn’t want my form getting wet.

You think he’ll ever qualify?

He shook his head. I doubt it. He needs to clear early to have any chance.

Ranger is man of many talents. One of them is getting people to open up. I mean all kinds of people. They just come up to him and unload. He felt me staring at him.

What?

You should have been a shrink.

He shrugged. Cop, shrink, social worker. They’re all the same.

We fell back into studied silence until the call for Arlington's first race. There’s nothing like the prerace ritual and anticipation of the crowd to get the juices flowing. I turned to the first. I was disappointed. I just can't get into five thousand dollar claimers. Back in the day, when real horses came to Arlington Park, the eight race cards offered so many more opportunities. Nowadays, they're filled with cheap claimers and state-bred races. I have nothing against small farms trying to make a living, but barnyard pets are hard to read and impossible to bet. I tried to remember the last noteworthy Illinois bred. It came to me.

Buck’s Boy.

Ranger gave me a puzzled look.

He was the last good Illinois bred.

Uh huh. Thanks for the history lesson professor.

Just saying. You ever want to own a race horse?

Ranger impatiently looked up from his form and then softened.

Thought about it a coupla times, but hell, I don’t even know which end the bridle goes. Besides, I really don’t want to know. I like thinking their lives are perfect and nothing ever goes wrong.

We are simpatico.

The afternoon dragged on until the fifth at Saratoga; a maiden race for two-year-old fillies I never heard of. It was Ranger’s B-O-D and I had to ask.

I don't see it. What's the play?

You’re gonna owe me.

Okay.

Glitter Song.

I ran a finger down to her name and saw she had finished third in a maiden claimer. It was her first start.

This is your bet of the day?

He scowled.

Did you see the race?

Nope.

She was trapped inside the whole trip and didn’t get loose until the eighth. Another seventy yards, she wins.

Whoa there big guy. Those were maiden claimers at Belmont. Not open maidens at Saratoga.

He became annoyed. Then, don't bet.

Since when are you a trip player?

He glared. Don’t... fuckin’... bet.

I threw up my hands and watched him go to the window. This one made no sense, but I had to back his play. It's an unwritten law. I didn't bet much. The race goes off and Glitter Song gets up in the last jump and pays $18.60. I feigned embarrassment when Ranger came back wearing a shit eating grin.

Told ya.

I hung my head for effect and then waved my ticket in the air. The look of contentment on his face was worth more than the cash.

After the seventh race at Saratoga, I conceded to the racing gods and bought two forms for tomorrow.

Here, I said, slapping one of them down in front of him. I’m outta here.

He sat back. What’s your problem?

I got a dinner date.

Oh? His caterpillar eyebrows wriggled. Anyone I know?

My neighbor. She agreed to watch Roxy while I visited Annie and the kids.

His eyes widened. Are you talkin’ ‘bout Black Beauty?

I smiled and nodded.

You tappin’ that?

I gave him a short-armed salute and left him to his lascivious imagination and his off-key rendition of the Stone’s Brown Sugar. The damn song stuck in my head until we entered the restaurant.

You seem preoccupied, Theo said.

The record ripped to a stop.

I was just thinking about how comfortable I am with you.

Her eyes flashed. Really?

Really.

After the maître d' pulled out her chair and the busboy filled our water glasses, she asked.

How comfortable?

I smiled and laid a napkin on my lap.

Most people don’t get me. They either under or overestimate me, I said and opened the five pound menu.

Theo folded her hands on top of hers.

What’s better? Over or under?

I looked up. Under. There's more incentive to prove someone wrong than trying to fulfill their expectations.

Theo nodded like a therapist.

Does your daughter have unrealistic expectations?

I don't know if they’re unrealistic, but it killed me every time I disappointed her.

She nodded again.

Don’t do that T.

Do what?

The head thing. My daughter does that. I get enough free analysis.

Sensitive too, she quipped and then perused her menu for all of ten seconds before closing it.

Let me tell you something sweetie. If I’d a worried about what other people expected of me, I’d still be married to a mangy dog.

Her Della Reese was spot on. I loved it. Her delectable way of speaking is so contrary to the kind of new speak we get jammed down our throats. Soft-pedaling the truth is as disingenuous as it gets, but dems the rules and the poor bastard who forgets, gets his head chopped off. We still kill the messenger in this country. I changed the subject.

So, what are you having?

She waggled a finger at me.

Oh, no you don’t. You're not gettin' off the couch that easy.

Okay, but I think we better have something to tell our waiter otherwise he’ll hover.

On cue our waiter arrived, introduced himself and asked if we would like a cocktail. I ordered a bottle of Willamette Valley Pinot Noir and sent him on his way. My eyes flickered between the menu and the woman setting across from me. She pretended to weigh her meal options intently.

Theodora is an American success story. The only child of a career navy man, they moved from base to base until landing at Great Lakes. There, she met a boy at Waukegan High who made promises he couldn’t keep and knocked her up at age 16. He did the right thing with a little help from daddy’s navy issue sidearm and married her. Their wedding photo tells you all you need to know about their relationship. She, with the trusting eyes and infectious smile. And the terrified groom with a tight smile, bordering on a grimace. The day after daddy was transferred to Subic Bay, hubby bailed, leaving her uneducated, unemployed wife with a baby boy ready for Pre School. Her father sent her enough money to keep the wolf from the door until she landed a job selling women’s clothes for minimum wage. She discovered she had a knack for it and within six months was managing the store. She took night classes, completed her GED and went on to Junior College. She described those years as her Equal Opportunity Intercourse and Foreign Exchange Program. She told me all about it one night after a bottle of wine, critiquing them as if they were movies. The English chap was punctual and efficient. The Frog sweet and pretentious. The German scientific. The Swede recreational sport. The Latin passionate bravado. The Arab lavished her with gifts as did the Japanese fellow. They both expected her to leave by way of the back door. She spared me any thoughts on American white boys and ended her confessional with a lament about how foolish it was. I secretly envied all of them. She asked if I thought she was a ho. She was hoping for an unqualified no, but instead, I gave her a shrink’s response. She was evolving, I said. Testing her limits. Besides, it only matters what you think. She went off.

So, you do think I’m a ho?

I backpedaled until she flashed her killer smile. The memory of it made me grin.

What are you thinking? She asked.

I looked up. She was smiling that smile.

Nothing. I was just remembering a conversation we had.

Uh huh. I know how your mind works.

Do you? Well, then Ms. Kreskin, what am I going to order?

That’s easy. Prime rib, baked potato and maybe asparagus.

Dang.

She laughed.

Our waiter returned and, after performing the wine ritual, I ordered just that. She had the grouper. Once he left, I tried the old switch-a-roo and asked, How come you never remarried?

She grinned. Nice try Billy, but I'm not finished. Is your daughter still trying to change you?

I took a swallow of wine.

Annie says she’s become more self-actualized. Her word. She tells anyone who asks that her father is a retired college professor who spends his days playing the horses. That's a lot better than saying he's a degenerate, horse-playing father who never showed up for parent/teacher conferences or recitals.

Theo resisted the temptation to nod her head.

Okay, your turn, I prompted. Tell me how you got so rich?

She shook her head.

Men. All they ever want to talk about is money.

Well, we could talk about horses, but I’m afraid it would be a one-way conversation.

She set her glass down.

The short answer is I was in the right place at the right time. I was a quick study and after I earned my BA in Business Administration from DePaul, corporate America fell all over themselves to hire me. I was black. I was a woman. And the EEOC and OCR were flexing their political muscles.

They especially wanted sexy, articulate, black women, I thought.

I didn’t want to leave Chicago, so I accepted a position at Marshall Fields and reached their glass ceiling in short order. It wasn’t very high. That's when I decided to open my own store and it just took off.

You miss living in the city? I asked.

Not anymore. Colleagues thought I was crazy moving to the burbs, but I got tired of playing queen bee.

I raised my glass. I’m sure glad you did.

We clinked glasses. Our food arrived and we talked football for the rest of the meal. Theo is a fanatic Bear fan. I’ve tried to turn her on to the sport of kings, but she’s just too city. She asked how I did at the track.

I didn’t pull my weight, but Ranger gave me an eighteen dollar winner.

He's got hard written all over him. How did you ever hook up?

"Fate. We met at a restaurant bar near Arlington Park a couple weeks after I moved back to Chicago. He had his back to the door and was watching the comings and goings in the mirror behind the bar. When I took a stool, he asked me if I played the horses. I told him I was a piker and he grunted.

What’s a piker?

A small-time bettor. After ordering a bourbon rocks, I checked him out. He was about my age, but heavy like guys get when they sit too long on stools. I noticed he was cupping a glass of something with a twist with both hands, but never took a drink. That's when I saw the Raymond Chandler fedora setting on the bar. Well, I’m a sucker for a good detective story, so I introduced myself. He said his name was Ranger, so, naturally, I asked him how he got it. He furrowed those hairy eyebrows of his and for just a second, I thought he was going to punch me.

I paused to take a sip of wine.

So. What did he say?

He told me a rookie cop asked him that once and never did again.

I told you he was hard.

Then I asked about the hat and he burrowed those cobalt blue eyes into me and said, You crackin’ wise?"

I raised my hands in surrender and was about take my drink elsewhere when he flashed a grin.

I'm just yankin' your chain, he said and then told me the men at his precinct gave it to him because he worked alone.

What. No Tonto? Theo quipped.

I nodded.

After I ordered another drink, he asked if I was a drunk. I told him no. I had enough problems. That's when the confessional began. Like most alcoholics in the program, he was frank about his addiction and proud of his sobriety. Three years, two months and seven days, he said. Saved my life. Taking orders from piss ants who couldn’t find a picnic nearly killed me. I could relate. I had worked for a few of those piss ants myself. So, I let him complete his testimony and decided not to ask him why a recovering alcoholic was sitting in a bar for another day, but we never talked about it again. Horseplayers and alcoholics have that in common. The only relevant past is the performances of horses.

I have a friend in the program, Theo admitted.

The sober way she said it led me to believe her friend wasn’t doing well. Our food arrived and we ate with quiet determination until dessert.

How long has it been now? She asked.

I poked the crust of my crème brulee and didn’t respond. She clarified.

I mean since your wife passed?

I looked up at her.

I knew what you meant.

I laid my spoon down and waved at our waiter for the check.

I’m not ready to go there yet T. Don’t know if I’ll ever be. Let’s just say I still raise and lower the toilet seat. Besides, I want to talk about you.

She leaned back to drink the rest of her wine.

I really like spending time with you. I can just be. You know?

I broke eye contact and looked down at my dessert and groped for the words.

Every time you smile at me I feel like the luckiest guy in the world.

I waited a couple beats and then peeked to see if she was frowning or smiling. Her eyes were rheumy.

Are you blushing? I asked.

She broke form. How can you tell?

I can tell.

She set her glass down and leaned across the table.

I’m about ready to crawl over this table and see how sweet that tongue of yours really is.

Now, I was the one blushing.

The waiter interrupted any chance for a public display of affection by setting the check down. Theo put her hand on top of mine and gave it a squeeze. After I laid two C notes on the table, we stood and walked arm in